


Always

by Dark3Star



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, John is loyal, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Mycroft cares too, Reunion Fic, Sherlock Cares, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark3Star/pseuds/Dark3Star
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was loyal to Sherlock from the get go, and he remains so after the fall.<br/>Even if everyone else around him seems to be jumping ship. Now a reunion fic with multiple chapters!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loyal

**Author's Note:**

> This was originaly going to be a one-shot, but now I'm not so sure. What do you think?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's loyalty never falters...neither does Sherlock's.

 

  
Prologue: Loyal

"You have to let him go, John,"

John clenched his fists reflexively as anger surged through him. Not this again. Wouldn't anyone _ever_ learn. "You sound like my worthless therapist, Mycroft," John spat, not even turning to face the elder Holmes.

Mycroft was easy to brush off, John liked him about as much as Sherlock ever did. It was the others that got to him. Those bastards Donovan and Anderson... Lestrade, Molly, even Mrs. Hudson had, in their own way, encouraged John to 'let go' of Sherlock and to 'move on.'

As a result of their needling, John hardly spoke to them anymore. He still lived at 221 B Baker Street, so this occasional made paying the rent a touch awkward.

"If the shoe fits," Mycroft drawled. "You can't say that what you're doing is healthy."

John scoffed and continued to stare resolutely out the window. What did any of them know about healthy? He still worked, did his chores, read a book now and then. No book could ever be as good as a case, but it helped.

However, none of that seemed to be good enough for other people. They were so bloody focused on how Sherlock was still a part of his life, even though he was gone. Not only did John still lived at their old apartment, he still kept Sherlock's website active, and he still wrote his blog. Although, now his blog was more about letters to Sherlock, and brief essays defending Sherlock's name.

This was hardly his first _discussion_ with Mycroft. The elder Holmes brother had become quite the pest over the years. A month after Sherlock had fallen, they'd had an outrageous row; John had threatened to shoot Mycroft-and he would have too-if that sneaky bastard removed so much as a single article of Sherlock's clothing. It was a petty and unnecessary row. It would've made Sherlock proud.

The truth was, John had become more than a little attached to what remained of his best friend. John had even taken to wearing Sherlock's scarves in the winter.

"You're obsessing," Mycroft continued.

John didn't dignify Mycroft with a reply. Yes, Sherlock was still a big part of his life. One could even argue that Sherlock was a somewhat consuming part of his life, but no more so than when he had been alive.

As much as it hurt, John made a point of going on with things, keeping fit, and sharpening his mind as much as he could; he would never compare to Sherlock. John was trying to cope with the gaping wound left in his life since the fall of the world's only consulting detective, but there was more to it than that. John was convinced, absolutely convinced that there was more to Sherlock's story than he knew, and by God he would have answers if it was the last thing he ever did. In the meantime, all he could do was wait, and be ready when the time came.

"You're hopeless, John. Did you even know that your watch has been broken for the past year?"

John smiled a knowing smile to himself. Of course he knew. He had carefully removed the battery himself, the day after Sherlock fallen. His watch was frozen reading the hour and the minute that changed John's life forever.

Sherlock had been the one to put the idea into his head in the first place. During Sherlock's penultimate case, they had researched some eastern European tradition where people stopped clocks when they heard about a loved one's death. As with most of Sherlock's cases, this trifle of information had made all the difference in closing it.

John had never gotten around to writing up that particular case, but he'd never forgotten that particular mourning practice. Sherlock, naturally, had been baffled by the sentiment of such an idea, but it had made sense to John. After Sherlock's fall, when nothing seemed to make sense anymore, John had adopted the tradition, in his own way, with his broken wristwatch. The clock was supposed to stay stopped forever. Maybe when John had his answers he'd start it up again. In the meantime it was a perfect representation of the part of him that was frozen in that moment, willing Sherlock not to jump.

Mycroft let out a tired sigh. "I could have you committed you know."

John spun to face Mycroft at last, fire in his eyes. "Whatever you do, Mycroft, you'll never get what you want."

Mycroft regarded him with a patronizingly bored expression. John thought it was time to change that. He began advancing on the elder Holmes brother, slowly.

"Lock me in whatever deep dark hole you can find, sell the flat, and all his positions, you still won't convince me to 'let him go'. Change the environment, change my surroundings, and I will still be committed to him, our friendship, and his good name. I always will be."

John was completely in Mycroft's personal space now, staring him down. "You can't break me or buy me Mycroft. You never could."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "You always did have an unhealthy attachment to my brother." A slow sneer spread itself on Mycroft's lips. "He does not deserve such... loyalty."

They were so close to each other, that Mycroft never saw the punch coming. There was a sudden burst of light behind his eyes, and the snap of bone. Mycroft hunched over, shielding his broken, bleeding nose.

"You're a disgrace of a brother, Mycroft," John snarled, snapping the long umbrella, which Mycroft usually carried, over his knee. "Dead or alive I will never give up on your brother." John tossed the shattered umbrella on the floor and stormed out.

Mycroft groaned, and fumbled for his cell phone as he heard the doors slamming behind John.

_John is being very stubborn. -MH_

_Did you expect anything else? Put some ice on your nose before it swells. -SH_

_Have you hacked my security cameras again? -MH_

_Please, don't be stupid. I know my blogger. -SH_

_I hope this is all worth it. We could move much faster if you would come out in the open.- MH_

_Unacceptable. I will not put him at risk.- SH_

_Even if he is the only one still waiting for you, you'll have a hero's welcome when you return. -MH_

_After he's punched me, I'm sure I will.- SH_

_Maybe after that you can tell him the rest of it, and share you're true feelings. -MH_

_One step at a time Mycroft. -SH_

There was a pause of a few minutes and then...

_Thank you, for protecting him in my absence. - SH_

_You would make his threats of violence seem like child's play if I did not. - MH_

_True enough. Where are we on tracking down Sebastian? -SH_

_Not over text. I'll call you later. - MH_

_Be quick about it. -SH_

Mycroft shook his head as he slipped his phone back into his pants pocket, and dabbed at his nose. Sometimes he wasn't sure who was more stubborn about being loyal to who; John to Sherlock, or Sherlock to John. One thing was certain, he still expected a 'happy announcement' at some point in the future.


	2. Reaching Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was originally meant to be a one shot, however some reviews made me rethink that plan. I can't promise how often this will be updated, given that "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling" is my main focus right now, but I will finish it. I guess I'm going to turn this into a reunion fic. 
> 
> My apologies, this is completely un-beta'd. I hope you enjoy anyway.

John stared morosely out the window from his chair in 221B Baker Street watching the rain fall. Today was a bad day. He had those since Sherlock fell.. two years and four months of them. His knees are drawn up and his head is resting on them.

For all the bravado he might show Mycroft and the rest of the world, every day was a bad day, just some were worse than others. He still worked at the surgery, still went on with things, just as he'd thought to himself when Mycroft was attempting to read him the riot act, but it _hurt_ like nothing he'd ever felt before. He'd rather be shot again...

Some days he felt strong and sure, that he'd be able to figure out the whole truth of what had happened and honor Sherlock's memory in doing so. And then there were days like today... Days when he stared out at the rain and missed Sherlock until he couldn't see straight.

A knock at the door broke his train of thought. John stood quickly and wiped his face. Whatever happened he was still a soldier; he could pull himself together if need be.

John strode towards the door and opened it, glowering immediately upon seeing who it was. The bridge of Mycroft's nose and cheek were badly bruised, but there didn't seem to be a need for a splint any longer. John moved to close the door as quickly as he had opened it when Mycroft's hands flew up to try to stop his progress.

"Wait, John, _please_!"

John paused. He didn't think he'd _ever_ hear Mycroft say 'please' before. It did very little to appease John, but it was enough to make him pause. John glared harshly through the gap in the door at the elder Holmes. "You have three seconds to give me a good reason."

"Here!" Mycroft reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a legal sized envelope that appeared to have John's name scrawled across it.

John's eyes remained narrowed. "What is that?" he gestured to the letter with his chin.

"A letter from one of my operatives in deep cover," Mycroft whispered, relaxing the slightest bit. "He's been away from friends and family for a long time. He's almost done with an impossible mission and...I'm worried he'll lose his focus if he doesn't have some tie to home."

John shifted his weight from one foot to the other, dubious. "Wouldn't this also be a distraction? Not to mention dangerous if he's in as deep cover as you say?"

Mycroft sighed and hung his head. "Yes," he murmured back. "But I fear it's a case of the lesser of two evils." Mycroft lifted his head again and met John's gaze. "I've been his only contact all this time. The only one from home anyway. He loves...his family desperately, but the time apart has been...hard on him. I feel some connection with his home will help him focus through the pain." Mycroft extended his hand, offering John the letter. "Just think about it. If you don't want to I won't be back. If you do, well, I'll be back in three days to see if I have a letter to pick up. If you don't come to the door... I have my answer."

John rolled his eyes as he snatched the letter from Mycroft's hands. "Like you won't know by then anyway."

Mycroft's small, "Thank you, John," was muffled as John closed the door in his face.

John walked back towards his chair and threw himself into it in a huff. Mycroft had a lot of nerve showing up at his doorstep so soon after their little 'talk'. Was this part of his scheme to get John to forget about Sherlock? John brushed his fingers over his broken watch. Not happening. John tilted the letter in his hand, examining it. Now that he looked at it he realized it only had a fancy J emblazoned on the front. That made sense if this operatives mission was a dangerous as Mycroft had said. Anyone they communicated with would also be in danger.

Part of John wanted to crumple the paper up and hurl it into the fire. But there was another part, the ex-soldier part that knew what it was like to be far from home... And this poor sod probably didn't even have so much as a platoon to keep him company.

John turned the letter over in his hands, thinking. Fine. He could always use it for kindling later and no one would be the wiser. Grabbing one of Sherlock's old letter openers off the desk John made short work of the seal.

He pulled the letter out, unfolded it, and began to read. It read:

_Dear John,_

_Mycroft is an ass isn't he?_

John chuckled and surprised himself by doing so. It had been a long time since he'd laughed and meant it. Reading that much made him want to press on a bit further.

_I apologize for whatever Mycroft has done to get you to read thus far. You needn't feel any pressure to continue or reply. I have been away so long it was nice just to write this letter and imagine someone might get this far into reading it._

John nodded to himself. He remembered what it was like to be that homesick. He might not like Mycroft, but this operative of his had done nothing, so far as John could tell, worth being angry or resentful about. It was worth finishing the letter at least.

_If you're still reading at this point, thank you. You still don't need to feel any pressure to respond, but it's nice not to be so alone. This mission has lasted so much longer than anyone suspected. I haven't seen my... well the people I was closest to in several years._

_I_ _**miss** _ _London, John._

John smiled knowingly at that sentence. What this man really missed where the people he just mentioned; missed them desperately, but was too proud to admit it.

_If you choose to write back please tell me what it's like in London. Spare no details._

_Also, if you choose I would like to hear more about you, John. I have been informed of your name, that you are an ex-army doctor, and that you are living in an old flat share without your flatmate. I am sorry for any intrusion on your privacy._

_I believe Mycroft only gave you the basic details on myself. I am an operative of his, after a fashion. It was not something I planned or something I'm particularly happy about, but situations came very fast upon me that left me little choice in the matter. Not one of the people I left behind knows what happened to me or, even, that I am still alive... But I had to do what I did; I had to make sure they were safe and damn the consequences..._

John felt his chest clench in sympathy. This person was well and truly _alone_. John could deduce from the stilted handwriting and overly odd phrasing of things that this man wasn't used to being this open with his feelings or the truth of his situation. He was taking a risk opening up to John this way. It was probably foolish of him, but John felt touched that this man, this correspondent was willing to make himself vulnerable, even if only in part. John gathered many details had been left out. Probably John wasn't cleared for the details, especially since whatever mission this was, was still ongoing.

_I don't know much about your situation John, but it sounds as if you might be lonely. I can relate to that. If you would be interested, I should very much like to take up a correspondence with you. I can give you precious little details about my current situation, I cannot even share my true name, but what I am able to share I will happily do so, if you will write back to me._

_I am generally not one for sentiment, but it would be nice to have a connection to home._

The way this man wrote the work 'home' belied his assertion that he was not one for 'sentiment'. John took a breath at the painful reminder of Sherlock that came with that word. He could almost picture Sherlock asking for something this way, half hesitant, half dismissive, and, to John anymore, more revealing of Sherlock's true feelings than he would've liked. John shook himself, and read on:

_I hope this letter finds you well and happy, although given what I do know about you, I doubt this is the case. Still, I wish you happiness all the same._

_Since I cannot give you my real first name I will leave you with my real middle name, which only you and Mycroft will know._

_Yours,_

_Alexander._

John put the letter down and sighed, almost hating himself for wanting to write back as badly as he did. Was he that lonely? Then again, how lonely must Alexander be? John knew it was easy to trust someone faceless and sympathetic... but if he just kept to irrelevant details, especially concerning himself, where would the harm be. Also, Alexander had put himself out there, a little. If what he said was true, John and Mycroft may be the only two people who knew Alexander was still alive.

What would that be like? To know that those people who you cared about most thought you were dead... John didn't have it in him to leave someone like that so alone.

John shifted to sit properly at his desk and took out a piece of paper. The letter Alexander had sent him was hand written, John felt like he should return the favor. No one hand wrote letters anymore. No one took the time. As he listened to the rain against the window, John wrote:

_Dear Alexander,_

_Mycroft is most definitely an ass. However, I see no reason to take that frustration out on you. Much better to wait until_ _**you** _ _give me a reason to be frustrated at you._

_Thank you for sending me a letter. It's nice to hear for someone who just wants to talk, without any of the other stupid agendas people seem to have these days._

_It's raining here, and cold. The rain patters against the window rhythmically unless the wind picks up. Then you can hear the rain driving against the roof as though it were trying to accomplish something else besides getting it wet. These cold wet nights can get into your bones, but at least it's foggy. That might seem strange, but I like he fog Especially a thick fog. The kind that sneaks up to your window and hides the world away behind it, like a thick blanket being drawn across the city._

_Winter is coming and for all the people complain about the weather it's my favorite time of year. The darker and colder it gets the more I enjoy myself. I have a steady supply of what other people call 'hideous' jumpers to keep me warm. I found it's always much easier to get warm than to stay cool. Afghanistan was a bitch because of the heat alone._

_There's a strange symmetry to the darkening days and the 'holiday' season. As thought people think they can banish the dark by being cheery. Most of it's rubbish and sales, but sometimes you can find a glimpse of what people really mean when they say 'holiday spirit'._

_My old flat-mate used to play his violin a lot this time of year when...we weren't busy. I like to tell myself he did it because he knew I liked to hear him play. I hope that doesn't make me too foolish._

John hesitated a moment. He'd tried to give a good sense of London with a bit about himself. John could've spent pages and pages on London, but the truth was the more it changed. the more it stayed the same. He felt, based partly on his own time in service, that this Alexander wanted a little 'snapshot' of home more than anything else. Writing about Sherlock had been hard, but it was just silly little details, nothing soul searching.

John thought about Alexander's situation and swallowed. What could he say about that? What do you say to someone who, even if they do come back might not have the welcome back they wanted. What if he'd been married, and his wife moved on? Would his friends feel lied to? Would he be trusted back at work? Would there even be a space for him? So much of what came to mind sounded petty, empty, and flat.

John sat back and stared into the fire a moment. Despite his best efforts to the contrary Sherlock came to mind. John _knew_ he was dead, he'd seen the body. Even so he couldn't stop himself from imagining what it would be like to learn that Sherlock had lived, as Alexander's family might learn he still lived and had only disappeared to protect them. John would be _**so**_ angry, but even more relived.

John steepled his fingers under his chin for a moment trying not to think of how much he was mirroring Sherlock at the moment. He needed to think, and this might be a good avenue to explore. If, in some alternate universe, Sherlock found himself in Alexander's shoes, what would John want someone to say to him? What would he want him to know?

John smiled then, and bent over the paper to finish his letter.

_I'm sorry you've been alone...I know how much that hurts. You're not alone anymore; I'll be waiting for your next letter._

_\- John_


	3. A Friend in Dark Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can feel alone in a crowd and connected when you're all alone.

Chapter 3: A Friend in Dark Places

John strolled into the sitting room, ruffling a towel in his hair. He had just finished a long soak in a scorching tub and his skin had a red/pink glow. Lowering the towel, John draped it over one of the kitchen chairs. He was dressed in soft flannel pajama pants and a oversized, terry-cloth robe. He was a bit too overheated to think of pulling on a flannel shirt just yet, and his chest peeked out through the V of the neckline.

The robe had been a gift from Sherlock on John's birthday before the fall. Sherlock proclaimed not to be one for gift giving, which made it even more special. Sherlock had thought of him and chosen well; John had put the robe to good use over the years, especially during the cold winter months.

John glanced outside and smiled. Ice crystals formed around the windows and snow was piling up on the sill even as more fell from the sky. A warm fire was still crackling merrily in their fireplace. Today felt like a good day to curl up and read a book. Sometimes John would pretend that Sherlock was there in his mind palace, and he had been during many lazy days around 221 B. John knew it wasn't true, but it helped on the bad days, and even on the bad days that weren't so bad.

John moved towards the fireplace and stoked the logs before turning towards the coffee table. He intended to pick up one of the books piled there, as he'd just been thinking about, when he noticed a splash of white against the dark hardwood floor. John adjusted his course and bent to scoop up the envelope that had been pushed under his door. He smiled as he saw the decorative J emblazoned on the front.

He remembered when Mycroft had stopped by the flat to pick up John's first letter to Alexander. Mycroft had knocked as before, John had opened the door and handed him the letter. Mycroft had nodded as though this was what he'd been expecting and put the letter in his jacket pocket. That had been almost three weeks ago.

Mycroft must have stopped by while John was in the bath, and he wasn't sorry to have missed him. Thing were perhaps more tense between John and Mycroft than they'd been between Sherlock and Mycroft. All things considered, John was glad that Mycroft had 'introduced' him to Alexander. For the first time in a very long time John felt he had something to look forward to.

John tore open the seal with the same letter opener as before, and read:

_Dear John,_

_The fact that Mycroft is an ass, established, I am grateful for his proposal to begin exchanging letters with you. In a way, for the first time since I began this endeavor, I have someone waiting for me...I'm happy for that._

John smiled as he scanned the page. This Alexander struck him as a proud sort of person that did not open up easily. John wondered if he was projecting traits of Sherlock onto Alexander because of how much he missed the consulting detective. It was hard to tell.

_I confess I also prefer the colder months of the year. There's more to see than during the spring and summer, especially if it snows. You can see where people and animals have made their way through the snow, where it would've been easier to miss before. It's infuriating sometimes how willfully blind others can be and the consequences of it..._

_As much as I enjoy the cold though, I look forward to experiencing a proper spring and summer in London when I can finally return. I have been so many different places over the past few years, and, no matter where I go, it always seems to be cold._

_I've never been one for sitting still but,_

There was some hesitancy here, several scratches of the pen as if Alexander hadn't been sure what to write or if he wanted to continue.

_the person I miss the most never had a problem with it. He's so steady and sure, like he's waiting to be the rock someone else can build their world around. I've been told I can be abrasive and, at times, intolerable. While he complained he never left._

_Now that I can dare to think ahead to coming home...I can't expect him to believe or forgive me. For a while I thought about not coming home at all, maybe that would still be the kinder thing to do. For his sake I wish I could be a kinder person._

John bit his lip and shook his head. Alexander sounded as though he had a boyfriend at home, or someone he wished was a boyfriend.

_You miss your flat-mate a lot. You only touched on him briefly in your last letter, but at the same time I got an impression of him even as you described the weather. You've been alone too, John, and I'm sorry for that. But as you said, we are, neither of us, alone anymore._

John smiled despite himself at the stilted language. He felt more and more sure Mycroft had selected this operative because of his similarities to Sherlock. Mycroft wanted a wedge to pry John away from his 'old' life. Well, let him pry all he wanted. John might form other connections in his life, but Sherlock had made an imprint too big to ignore. Even Alexander had seen that.

_It's the dead of winter in London about now, you must be in one of those 'hideous jumpers' as you read this. With a cup of tea and milk; am I right? Probably with a good book to go along with everything. Predictable Englishman really._

John chuckled. He knew Alexander was only trying to get more of a sense of who he was, but it felt like he was being 'deduced' all over again.

_Well I won't keep you from your tea and books any longer. I hope I've made you smile at least once. Thank you for reading. I will be on the lookout for your next letter._

_Yours,_

_Alexander_

John smoothed the letter down with a smile. Lord knows what Alexander was coping with, being on a mission for Mycroft. One he was forced into, granted, but still a dangerous one to have lasted so long. John felt touched that Alexander had made time for him.

John was starting to feel the chill again, so he set his letter down on the coffee table and scrambled up to his room to pull on a flannel shirt in addition to his robe. Afterwards he puttered around in the kitchen, preparing a cup of Earl Grey tea with milk. He actually had milk on a regular bases since he was the only one getting it and Sherlock wasn't appropriating any for his experiments. It was stupid, but he missed being out of milk.

Once John had settled himself on the couch again, he sipped his tea and though about his reply. When the tea was gone he pulled a large book and fresh paper into his lap. Using the book to support the paper he wrote:

_Dear Alexander,_

_Did you know that the convention of writing 'dear' before the name of the intended recipient of a letter is leftover from a time in history when people would write often to their loved ones, hence people who were truly 'dear' to them?_

_That sentence is probably littered with grammatical errors and I don't care. This is a letter to you, so it's your problem now._

_It sounds as if you left a boyfriend behind; is that the case? I'm sorry if I misunderstood. It's_

John hesitated for a long moment before deciding that he couldn't really think of another way to express his general comfort and support.

_It's all fine._

John felt compelled to add:

_Not that I'm flirting or anything. I said something similar to my flatmate once and he thought I was, so just to avoid the confusion. Not flirting. Right. Now I sound like an idiot. Although, to be fair, so do you._

_You read correctly, Alexander, you are an idiot. Most people are, but you are taking it to new levels for even considering not going home. Boyfriend or not you have someone you care about at home, and they deserve the truth. If they really care about you, if they really love you, it won't matter. I'm not saying you might not walk away without a black eye, but I can guarantee you, if there were any chance that my flat-mate could come back I would jump at the chance to see him again. Everything else is just details. Come home, Alexander. Too many people never get the chance._

_You mentioned that I missed my flat-mate...Am I that obvious? Of course I must be. He..._

John swallowed, hard.

_Sherlock made such a big impression on my life, such a change; you can't just walk away from something like that. I'm not sure if Mycroft told you my former flat-mate was his younger brother. You might have known already. I forget how popular my blog is sometimes. You're right. I miss him every day._

_I hate hearing people talk badly about him. Although I think I inadvertently started a counter culture movement with my last blog... I've seen a few people wearing "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" t-shirts. It's silly, but it always makes me smile._

_You got something wrong, by the way. I was_ _**not** _ _curled up with a book and a cup of tea. I hadn't gotten there yet; your letter was waiting for me._

John paused for a moment to stare into the fire with a small smile on his lips. As much as it hurt to see reminders of Sherlock in Alexander's letters, in a strange way it helped ease part of the ache inside him. Picking up his pen again, John continued writing:

_I know you can't tell me much about your current assignment but I hope you can tell me some more about yourself. I already know you're brilliant; no other kind of person works for Mycroft. You say you're disagreeable, but I doubt that's entirely true. If living with Sherlock taught me anything, it's that 'prickly' people aren't always as bad as they seem._

_And yes, I smiled more than once. It was good to hear from you. I hope this letter finds you well, stay safe._

_Yours,_

_John_

John blew on his paper to dry the ink, and smiled to himself. He felt a bit lighter. Even knowing that Mycroft wouldn't be back until a few days from now to pick up his letter, John found himself already anxious for a reply.

John stood to clear away his tea. That was one thing you could say about 221B since John had become its sole occupant. It wasn't as messy. On impulse he snatched a fresh, sealed teabag from the box of Earl Grey and strode back into the sitting room. Fetching an envelope he scrawled Alexander's name across the front and dropped the teabag inside. Before folding his letter and adding it he wrote:

_P.S. By the time I wrote this letter I had gotten around to tea. Care to join me?_


	4. Where the Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Alexander get a bit emotional in their letters...

Chapter 4: Reaching for Home

 

John trudged up the stairs to 221 B with both arms full of groceries from Tesco's. He was quite tired. He'd worked at the surgery today before stopping at the store on the way home. At least he hadn't had an argument with a chip and pin machine again; that would've been embarrassing. Glancing up, John noticed Mycroft peering down the steps at him.

"I was about to leave this for you," Mycroft said, brandishing a legal sized envelope with the letter "J" emblazoned on the front in fancy script, "but then I heard you coming up the stairs."

John smiled, happy to see another letter. It had, once again, been three weeks since his last letter. John wondered if that would be the regular interval for these letters? "Thank you for waiting," John said as he crested the stairs, "Just let me set these on the table, and I can take that from you."

John wormed his way into the sitting room, and rounded the corner into the kitchen. He set his bags down on the table, feeling stupid for being disappointed that there was enough room on the table for him to do that. It was amazing what could grow on you, even if it annoyed you...

Turning, John wiped his hands down the front of his jeans, and reached to take the letter from Mycroft. "Your nose is looking better," John commented with a grin.

Mycroft glowered and handed over the letter.

John smiled down at the envelope, turning it over in his hands, and feeling a rush of anticipation. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he glanced up at Mycroft. John opened his mouth to speak, hesitated for a moment, then pressed on anyway. "Do you know when he might be coming home?" John gestured with the letter as he spoke.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and was silent for a long moment. "Why does his return interest you?"

John shrugged. "Well, we've exchanged a few letters now. It'd be nice to meet the man when he comes home."

" _If_ he comes home," Mycroft replied, and it was John's turn to glower.

"Don't talk like that, Mycroft."

"It's the truth, John," Mycroft replied stoically.

"You _don't_ know that." John was getting irritated now.

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh, as though he was speaking to a child. "John, this...operative has been away for approximately two and a half years on the most dangerous project I have ever seen undertaken. We must be practical."

That gave John pause. If _Mycroft,_ of all people, was calling this the most dangerous mission he'd ever seen, then it had to be quite dangerous. Still... "Being practical is different from being all gloom and doom about it," John persisted.

A small, wry smile curved on the edges of Mycroft's lips. "You are very loyal, very quickly."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. I've heard that before. Do you know when he might be coming home, or don't you?"

Mycroft hesitated a long moment, and John feared he wouldn't get an answer. Finally, Mycroft said quietly, "He may come home as early as six months from now."

John nodded and sighed. That would make Alexander's time away from home approximately three years. That was such a long time to be away from home... "I'd like to meet him when he comes home, Mycroft. I understand he's believed dead. I could even do a physical for him, if he wanted some breathing room before going back on the grid." John frowned thoughtfully. "He'll probably be in rough shape after this mission."

Mycroft sighed, and ran a hand down his face. "I knew introducing you two would be a bad idea."

John crossed his arms. "Then why did you?"

Mycroft lowered his hand, and met John's gaze again. "Because I want him alive too, and I do think a connection to home is helping him... Just...understand the risks, John."

John straightened. "I was a soldier, Mycroft; I understand about risks. I'd like to be there for him when he comes back home. It sounds like he's going to have a hell of a time getting his life back together."

"And we're back to that ridiculous loyalty streak of yours," Mycroft sighed, staring down at the floor for a long moment. "Fine," he continued, looking up again, "I'll see what I can do, but I make _**no**_ promises. Understood?"

John brightened a bit. "Life doesn't make promises, Mycroft; trying is all you can do." John almost added a 'thank you,' but he was still angry at Mycroft for what he'd said about his brother. Sherlock deserved every bit of respect and loyalty John could give; even if he had left spare body parts in the fridge...

Mycroft nodded, and started to make his way towards the door. "I will be back in three days, as usual," he called over his shoulder.

John moved to the windows in the sitting room, and watched the street to make sure Mycroft had left, before looking at the letter in his hands once more. A smile he couldn't quite help crept onto his face as he studied his first initial on the front of the envelope. Taking up Sherlock's letter opener, John carefully tore open the envelope, pulled out the letter, and began to read:

_Dear John,_

_The tea was lovely, thank you. It's been a long time since I stopped for a decent cup of tea._

_And, yes John, I am well aware of the history of the English language, and the many useless exercises the general public has engaged in for the sake of_ _**etiquette** _ _. Luckily for you, I care about none of it and will take your letter, grammatical atrocities and all, just as it is._

John smiled and shook his head, thinking of Sherlock before he could stop himself. Reading on, he found the next section full of hesitation marks, as though Alexander had come back to this letter many times, trying to find his words.

 _Boyfriend... Lover...I...I wish that were true, and I'm twice as cruel for it. He's not my boyfriend, John, I never thought I wanted one. I was always too busy with...work. You say I am an idiot, and that you would be glad to see your flatmate again, but are you sure? Really picture it in your mind;, try to make it real. Could you forgive him? How much worse would it be if you had been_ _**lovers** _ _on top of it?_

 _But it's ironic, because I wouldn't be here if not for him... Until my mission is complete, I must stay hidden or he, and several others I've grown to care for, will be in grave danger. I miss his smell, his smile, and everything we did together...I was so sure I would never be lead by my emotions, but there was no stopping myself when it came to...him. It just..._ _**was** _ _, and despite any protests I may have had about it; I was in the middle of it before I even knew I had begun. I would do_ _**anything** _ _to assure his safety...even if I never get the chance to explain._

John closed his eyes for a moment and just focused on his breathing. What was it Mycroft had said? Ah, yes: Alexander loves his family _desperately_. That desperation was certainly coming across. The stumbling way Alexander confessed his feelings was endearing and painful. He could imagine Sherlock confessing his love to someone in that same stumbling fashion... John knew he had to be projecting Sherlock's image onto this man because love, in that sense, wasn't Sherlock's 'thing.' And John...

John strode to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea before he could finish that thought. If he really wanted to build a friendship with this man, he was going to have to see him for who he was, not John's projected image of how he would like Sherlock to have been.

John took a deep breath, settled himself on the couch with his tea, and picked up the letter once more.

 _The way you talk about Sherlock...the person I left behind did the same thing for me. Look at us both. This is why I will never understand it when people insist that love is a_ _**good** _ _thing. Look at all the pain it causes..._

John sighed and pressed his lips in a thin, unhappy line. "Stubborn idiot," he muttered. John would have to see if he could talk some sense into him.

_To change topics for a moment, I must admit I'm pleased to hear about your little 'revolution' as you call it. Anything that vexes the yard is bound to be entertaining. I was familiar with some of the yard members before I left. That happens when you work with Mycroft. I can just see Lestrade's sour face as he is accosted by people in matching t-shirts._

_I'm flattered that you want to hear about me John; no one wants to hear about me._

John pursed his lips to stop himself from voicing an argument to a man who was god knows how many miles away, and read on.

_I'm not being self deprecating; I really am difficult to get on with. I don't have the patience to be polite with most people. That is an unsentimental statement of fact. However, since you're curious, I'll tell you more. I am an avid reader. Many people think I only read scientific works. While I do read plenty of those, I am not adverse to a novel. Especially when it is telling of human behaviors, history, and/or customs. One never knows when those things could be helpful._

_And you're right, I am brilliant._

John chuckled to himself. "And humble too," he murmured sarcastically, before he continued reading.

_At the risk of quoting this 'pop culture' people seem so obsessed with, it is both a gift and a curse. It physically hurts to have nothing to do or think about. Because of this, I don't sleep well; my brain just won't shut off most days. I am very accustomed to pain, and pushing past it. Despite what most people assume, I wish I could sleep more, turn my brain off. If I could sleep, I would be able pass the time between interesting missions much faster._

John's hands shook a bit as he read the letter. He was trying not to see Sherlock, and he found Sherlock laid out in front of him. He shouldn't be surprised, Mycroft was always trying to get Sherlock to work for him, it makes sense that he would already employ someone similar to the great detective. John took a steadying breath and scanned the letter. There wasn't much more; John forced himself to press on.

_I have noticed something in re-reading your letters just now. Both times you have wished for my safety, and both times I have written you, I have wished for your happiness. Strange, I normally hate repeating myself. I suppose there is, as they say, a first time for everything._

John felt a reluctant smile curl onto his lips.

_So I will wish again for your happiness, John._

There were more hesitation marks here, and even something that had been scribbled out, as if Alexander had written something before he'd had the chance to think better of it. As much as he squinted, John couldn't make it out. At last he shrugged and read on, finishing the letter:

_If you are amenable, I would very much like to hear what you have been doing lately; I would like to get a sense of who you are as well. ...Be happy, John._

_Yours,_

_Alexander._

The words 'be happy' were shaky, as though Alexander hadn't been sure whether or not to write them, as if he couldn't help himself. John smiled. He could tell he was dealing with a man who didn't let others in often, and he felt honored that Alexander had opened up to him.

John let out a slow breath through pursed lips, and closed his eyes. He felt so many things at once. Pain at the reminders of Sherlock that he couldn't seem to avoid seeing in these letters, pain for Alexander's own situation, and another sensation that was harder to place. John scrunched his eyebrows together and tried to give a name to that icy/fire feeling in his stomach, the kind of feeling you get when you plummet from the apex of a rollercoaster...and again he thought of Sherlock. John used to get this feeling on cases, especially if there was a chase involved.

John couldn't say exactly why, but he knew that there was something dangerous here... Well, he'd never walked away from danger in his life, why start now? John opened his eyes, placed Alexander's letter reverently on his desk, and made more tea.

When John had finished another glass of tea, and had made an additional pot to carry him through the afternoon he curled on the couch with a paper pressed against a large book which served as a make-shift writing surface, and began to compose his reply.

_Dear Alexander,_

_I asked Mycroft when you were coming home today. He wasn't happy about the question, and he didn't want to answer, but I was able to wring it out of him...he said it could be as soon as six months... I'd like to see you when you come back. Lord knows you'll need a doctor with whatever Mycroft's put you through. Between Sherlock and Afghanistan, almost nothing surprises me anymore. I figure that when you come back, it'll probably take a few days at least to debrief. You'll probably also need to physically recover, depending on what state you're in. I've never been a fan of Mycroft's hospitality so...if you need to crash someplace, and get your head together, you're welcome here._

_However, let me make one things perfectly clear: you_ _**are** _ _going to find that man you're in love with and explain to him what happened. So help me God, I'll drag you through all of London by your ear if you make me, just to make sure you're together again. I can see how much you love him, it's as obvious as the fact that I...miss Sherlock. You can't go through all of this just to walk away without even trying. I_ _**won't** _ _allow it. That's probably a touch rude on my part but... I..._

John took a breath to steady himself. He was being harsh on Alexander at the same time as trying to be comforting, and it felt like there was something unidentified swimming just beneath the surface...

Alexander had asked him to stop and think, to really picture what it would be like for Sherlock to come back; it seemed only fair to give it a try. Sure he'd imagined Sherlock magically being alive again, but John had been too raw to really surrender himself to the fantasy... it felt like he really would shatter if he tried.

It had been two and a half years now...maybe it was time. Folding his hands over his half written letter, John closed his eyes and thought about it...What if he had been deceived all this time, and Sherlock came back? What would that be like?

John pictured Sherlock, summoned a clear image of his height, his pale skin, his wiry body, his dark curls, his sharp cheek bones, and his stunning blue eyes... John imagined Sherlock stepping into the flat, the wood creaking under his weight as he tugged at his familiar scarf. A sharp intake of breath overtook John as long buried emotions swelled within him. Joy...pain...so much joy.

God, he would tackle Sherlock and pin him to the ground and never, ever let him up again. He would hit him too. Not the kind of hit that injures, but more like an ineffectual beating of his fists against Sherlock's chest; more an expression of emotion than an act of violence, a way to feel Sherlock alive, and whole, and real beneath him.

Tears stung John's closed eyes and his hands clenched reflexively over his letter, crinkling it, as if to hold this image of Sherlock in place and make it real... John opened his eyes with another sharp breath and his tears spilled onto the paper beneath him. John ran a shaky hand over his face, pressing his hand to his mouth to stop the small noises that threatened to escape. A hot, powerful feeling he knew, John _knew_ had been in place long before Sherlock had jumped surged around him like a tidal wave and, for the first time, he knew what to call it...

God he had been _**so**_ stupid... It wouldn't have changed anything, it would probably have broken up their partnership, and still John would _always_ regret not telling Sherlock the truth... He deserved to know, and now it was far, far too late.

John yanked a tissue from its box on the coffee table, and wiped away the tears. He took a deep breath and ran his hand over the letter to smooth it and remove the tears. John tried to steady himself as he took up his pen again, but his hand shook a little. Still he wrote, because he most definitely had his answer.

 _You asked me to think, really think, about what it would be like to have Sherlock back again... I did. I am_ _**such** _ _an idiot... we really are quite the pair... My answer has not changed. If anything, I'm more sure._ _**COME HOME.** _ _Find the man you love, and so help me God, tell him the_ _**truth** _ _._

 _I believe you when you say you would to anything to protect your loved ones, so believe me when I say I would do_ _**anything** _ _to have Sherlock back again._ _**ANYTHING** _ _**.** _

John underlined his second 'anything' so hard he almost tore through the paper. He took a breath, forced himself to take a long sip of tea, and pressed on.

_You asked me how much worse it would be if Sherlock and I had been lovers... It never would've happened. That's not 'his area,' as he informed me many times. You think that would've turned me off loving him, but here I am, three years later, loving a brilliant, impossible man who is nearly three years dead._

_You somewhat insinuated this in your last letter, so let me be clear. I love Sherlock Holmes. I spent so much time running from that when he was alive, then grieving him since his fall I couldn't even name the emotion for years... you're the only person I've ever told and yet everyone knows... We were often mistaken as a couple... God, he probably knew... I still should've told him. He believed in the truth. I just...What we did together was too much fun, too life changing to walk away from or risk damaging... So yes, I am an idiot, and a coward, and I'll be_ _**damned** _ _if I let you follow my example._ _No arguments_ _._

John leaned back and strong-armed himself into a calmer state of mind before he continued his letter. It had been more emotional than he thought it would. He needed a break. With a somewhat steady hand, he changed topics.

_Now, on to Lestrade. You're in luck. I snapped a picture of him once, outside my flat, surrounded by a crowd of 'Sherlockians' as they call themselves. T-shirts and all. Before it happened I may, or may not have mentioned in my blog that Lestrade had been coming around the flat a lot to get me to 'snap out of it' in order to encourage such a gang of Sherlockians to appear and bother the great sod. I'll print off a picture and send it with the letter. You sound like you could use a laugh._

_I have to confess you sound a lot like Sherlock. I try not to see him in your writing, but I can't seem to help it... I'm probably just projecting, but he was a bit of a tortured genius too. Still I could get him to laugh and eat and sleep more than he would've on his own; I'm betting this man you love can do the same for you. If you let me, I can also see what I can do as a doctor. Maybe there's something that could aide your sleep without throwing everything else you love about your busy mind out of whack... I'll have to do some research._

_Now, you asked about me. We've already covered my idiocy around Sherlock... He was such a big part of my life, and in many ways he still is. I still write in my blog, although now it's more ramblings to him about my day, or how he's an idiot, or how I miss him. Sometimes, more often in the beginning, I wrote little essays defending his name. The Sherlockians sort of took that over, so I don't do it as often anymore._

_I have a broken watch on my wrist. I removed the battery, then set the time to the moment Sherlock jumped. He would think it was useless and sentimental, and maybe you do to, but I don't care. If it wasn't obvious enough already, part of me is stuck in that moment and, while the rest of me lives my life as best it can, I'm not sure that other part is ever getting unstuck. Like the scar I have on my shoulder from being shot in Afghanistan (yes I was shot there, that's what sent me home) some things just take away bits of you, and you have to learn to live without them, or die. As much as it hurts, I've never given up on anything in my life, and I'm not about to start now._

_But there's more to it than that... I know, I am_ _**certain** _ _that there are things about Sherlock's death I don't know. Maybe even Mycroft doesn't know. But, if it's the last thing I do, I will have some answers before I die. I'm not as good at detective work as Sherlock, but I am waiting and watching for my opportunity. When it comes, I'll be ready._

_As much of my life is affected by Sherlock, it's not consumed with it. I keep up a job at a local surgery. Being able to help someone else feels good, especially on the days when missing Sherlock hurts the most. I read too. Not as much as you and Sherlock did, and all the books I read are novels, but it can be a fun way to pass the time. Again, sometimes it's nice to focus on other people's problems._

_I've also taken up running since Sherlock's fall. I guess I got too used to tearing around London with him. Chasing after criminals is more fun, but I manage._

_You probably already know this, but I made a lot of tea today. This correspondence...these letters, they're not easy, but they're important. I don't want to stop them, even if they're a bit uncomfortable at times... I feel like they're going to lead somewhere good, even if all that is, is a new friendship. The idea of that makes me happy, so keep writing._

_Stay safe, Alexander. I look forward to your next letter._

_Yours,_

_John._

John carefully folded up the letter when he was finished an placed it in a waiting envelope. After a few mouse clicks he had printed the picture he had promised Alexander. John studied it for a moment before adding it to the envelope. Lestrade looked as unhappy as Sherlock had ever made him, and he was ringed with people in black shirts with the words "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" clearly emblazoned on them in white. The image still made John smile.

John carefully sealed the envelope and scrawled Alexander's name on the front. He propped it up by his computer. In the days that followed, as the letter sat there and waited for Mycroft to retrieve it, John would look over at it periodically, smile, and wish again for Alexander's safe return home.


	5. Love Forgives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some foreboding and many feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been too long since I took to my computer like this. But, man, am I ever glad to be back.
> 
> First, let me offer my abject apologies for the long, long and unexpected delay in this next update. I promise, it was not without good reason. I vacillated about how much to reveal in the author's note, because this is really about my writing, not me, but I also believe in honesty. So, if you need an explanation, here it is:
> 
> WARNING: Please skip this part if you are not in a good headspace for heavy emotions. I think maybe real life decided it was not fond of my cliff hangers, and decided to give me some drama of my own.
> 
> While I wrote "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling," I was unemployed. That was the major stressor in my life at that time. I feel dumb for complaining now because, as frightening as it was, I had so much fun with that story. Looking back, I wouldn't change it for anything. After I finished "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling," several things happened which have delayed my return to writing. All these things, mind you, happened AT THE SAME TIME:
> 
> I obtained not one, but two new jobs,
> 
> I moved to a new home. (This was a good thing, but not when you've just started working sixty some odd house a week).
> 
> My terminally ill father-in-law came to live with, and be cared for by Geoff and myself.
> 
> I posted chapters of "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling," very regularly, so I hope you will believe me when I say I am a very organized person. It took me six months to unpack, and the lawn is still not mowed. _ (Yes the grass is chest high. Hopefully that will change soon.) 
> 
> I can't believe I made it through the winter with my sanity intact, but here we are. I am finally unpacked, and, sadly, my father-in-law is laid to rest. This is probably over-sharing, but I did feel my readers were owed an honest explanation. 
> 
> I still intend to work on and complete all projects I have mentioned. Now that I am back to writing you may expect updates once more. I am still employed at both jobs so, unless I put you through further delays to allow for completion and editing of future stories before the first post begins, my posting will be slower than before. I cannot guarantee once a week posting. I can, however, guarantee at least once a month. Likely more, but we'll see. I am still dealing with lingering aftermath, and planning a wedding. Slower schedule aside, I am most definitely back to writing. Thank you all for your patience, and I sincerely hope you all continue to enjoy my stories. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left comments, given kudos to, and/or subscribed/bookmarked this story. You're support is much appreciated. Here's hoping this story still has an audience!
> 
> And, as always, thanks go to my reluctant muse, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff.
> 
> Special thanks also goes this time to Charlie, who did not ship Johnlock, but who was always a general fan of smutty stories.
> 
> Without further ado, let us get back to the story.

Chapter 5: Love Forgives

 

John flung open a cabinet door and fished around inside the dark recesses for a mug. His hand returned with both a well used tea mug, and a neatly folded letter placed inside said mug. The letter startled him, and for a moment John wondered if he was becoming forgetful or neglectful in the placement of his mail. That was when John noticed the swirling arches of calligraphy that emblazoned 'J' over the seal of the envelope. This was another letter from Alexander.

A grin broke over the ex-army doctors lips before he could stop himself. He really should be mad at Mycroft for taking such liberties in his flat-would be mad, if he wasn't so excited to see another letter from Alexander in his hands. It had been over a month since John had sent off his last letter with the elder Holmes brother, and he had begun to worry. He hadn't forgotten what lengths Alexander was going through, or how dangerous his mission was...

John's connection with Alexander was only tenuous, or at least it should be. Still, the idea of it growing cold and silent made John shudder and push the thought away. It was true that when John gave his loyalty, he gave it completely. Some part of him wondered if Mycroft's earlier admonishments held weight. Did he give his own loyalty _too_ easily? John thought he lived as comfortably as he could in the void Sherlock had left; now he wondered if he had succumbed to such depths of loneliness that he would just have easily attached himself to _any_ friendly connection which crossed his path... John sighed, and turned the letter over in his hands, studying it in the florescent light of the kitchen.

He remembered this kind of lonely. He'd felt it before, just after he'd been invalided home. His minuscule dingy flat of those first months had been barren and soulless not because of John's lack of funds, though that certainly played a part. It had been empty because John had been empty. As amazing, thrilling, and life-changing as his friendship with Sherlock had been, John still liked to think it wasn't all chance. That he'd placed such utter faith in the brilliant detective because of the remarkable traits he'd seen in him, and not just because he was _there_ , when so many others were not.

John ran one hand over his face, and stepped away from the still open cabinet. He set his empty mug down on the table, and sat heavily in one of the chairs which bracketed it. As much as he missed Sherlock, as much as he...loved him, even now, there were days John wanted a little breathing room. Nearly three years dead, and his infuriating flatmate still managed in insinuate himself into every aspect of John's life. Sometimes the memories were so thick that John could almost feel Sherlock sulking on the couch, or hovering over the microscope that used to rest on the kitchen table... So many things reminded John of the lanky consulting detective; these letters especially.

John felt the weight of Alexander's letter in his hand, and his fingers tingled with the itch to open it. John stared at the folded paper, running his finger over the creases and crinkles. As harmless and heartening as these letters had been, John still recognized an air of danger about them. Danger of getting too attached, danger of getting sucked into Alexander's mess, danger of yet more heartbreak in a world that seemed more unrelenting than ever...

Standing, John smirked ruefully, and forced himself to make a cup of tea. If he was going to charge headlong into danger, as usual, he was going to have tea first. It wouldn't really help him in any significant way, but it was comforting.

Several minutes later, John took a long pull from a steaming mug, and allowed himself to tear off the seal to the envelope. As he pulled out the folded pages, John had a moment to consider all of the different places in the flat where he had read Alexander's letters. Sometimes by his desk, sometimes in his chair, and once on the couch. It was unusual for such a creature of habit, for that was what John was outside of the danger in his life. Perhaps that's how he managed it so well; enjoyed it so much. Lack of adequate peril in his life without Sherlock may be yet one more thing that made Alexander's letters so appealing.

John's smile softened and warmed as a now familiar, neat, elegant handwriting came into view.

_Dear John,_

There were several smudges and scratches above this greeting, as thought Alexander struggled with even beginning the letter. The thought made Johns brows furrow slightly.

_I made you cry, John... I'm very sorry I made you cry._

John grimaced at the idea that he'd been found out. Then again the stressor marks on his last letter had been so obvious; even John would've been able to tell the person who wrote it was upset. Crinkled, stained with tears, and slightly torn under one vehement underlining, John had almost re-written the letter. He might have too, if his emotions hadn't threatened to get the better of him each time he'd considered it.

_I will come home, if I can, John. Mycroft was not exaggerating when he described the danger of this mission..._

John was unaware of the steadying breath that he took at that moment. Being a soldier, he knew he had to brace himself for the worst; it had become automatic.

_In fact, I suspect this letter may have found you later than the previous three._

There were more hesitation marks, and several scratched out words, as if Alexander had fussed over what to write next. The words that followed however, were written boldly, in a rush, as though he'd decided to relay the truth as quickly as possible.

_I sustained some...unexpected injuries, and was unable to write for a few days._

John's brow furrowed in concern. He repositioned himself to lean further over the letter, as thought this intensified concentration could perform the healing that John himself was unable to provide, given the distance between himself and his correspondent.

_I assure you that I sustained no major wounds. Everything is merely cosmetic. Perhaps the road rash on my back will scar, it is too early to tell._

John let out a pressured breath through his teeth, a hiss of suppressed irritation at the lightness with which Alexander spoke of his injuries.

_It just occurred to me that we have been writing, more or less consistently, for over three months now. I haven't had anything in my life that stable since...since I went away._

John drew his fingers down the crumpled paper in a caress, his doctors instincts urging him to offer comfort, even when his "patient" was God knows how many miles away.

There were more hesitation marks on the page in front of him. Alexander used the paragraph break to swing wildly from a light hearted tone, to a more serious one.

_I mentioned that he, the man that I love, is a stable person. That is yet another reason that we would be a badly matched couple; I am nothing but chaos. While I had the benefit of it, I found his stability to be both freeing and grounding. For the first time...maybe for the first time in forever, someone truly looked out for me._

_I'm not afraid of his anger. If I am able to come back, I more than deserve it. Any person in their right mind would have written me off as a lost cause years ago. All the same, I...I fear losing that stability... I don't want to lose him twice, but he deserves the truth._

John suppressed the urge to chuckle inappropriately at Alexander's abrupt shift in topics, the way he made light of his injuries, and his obsessive overanalyzing. Sherlock appeared to be jumping out at John from every line, and he found it immensely endearing. Try as he might, the good doctor found reminders of the world's only consulting detective everywhere he looked. John didn't think he could stop that impulse any more than he could stop the sun from rising... That might be just as well. Perhaps he just needed to let the reminders come, and to cope with them when they did.

 _I surmise from the photograph you sent that Lestrade was properly put out. Good. He has more_ _than a little of that coming to him, I think, for bothering you in your grief if nothing else._

John found himself smiling, amused by both the protective streak, and yet another abrupt change in subject. He couldn't really blame Alexander, though. He had to be surrounded by intense and unpleasant emotions constantly; he didn't need to be further burdened in these letters.

_I wish I could be impressed by these "Sherlockians" as you call them, but they are just persons following the lowest common denominator, with no more forethought in their actions than sheep following the heard. You, John, from what I understand, are that last true believer in Sherlock Holmes._

John found himself nodding at the sentiment. He doubted he was the **last** believer in Sherlock Holmes, he certainly hoped he wasn't. Even if he was, that wouldn't change his position. He would believe in, respect...and love Sherlock Holmes for a s long as he lived.

_I do not believe that I shall ever sleep well, John. However the sentiment, such that it is, is appreciated all the same._

John closed his eyes for a moment and laughed at himself. He decided he must have a special place in his heart for sarcastic, cryptic, impossible men, because no other sort of person would be so enamored of such a correspondence. Still, there were worse faults to have.

_You've got the dedication of a soldier, John. You hang onto the things you believe in, and damn the consequences. This is not always an admirable trait, but I find myself admiring it all the same._

There was a cluster of hesitation marks next, as though Alexander was truly beside himself in finding the right words.

 _If I...John... I will do_ _**all** _ _in my power to help you find your answers._

_I wish you happiness, John._

_Yours,_

_Alexander_

John closed his eyes again as he finished the letter. He focused on feeling the almost insubstantial weight of it in his hands. When they had been flatmates, Sherlock had made such a habit of stealing things from John, especially from his wallet, that the good doctor had developed the uncanny ability to detect if his wallet was thinner or lighter by the absence of a single card. John had made certain to keep this particular skill sharp after Sherlock was gone, and so even the light weight of the letter stood out sharply in his senses. John had kept this skill of his in practice as a way of remembering Sherlock. He had many ways of remembering Sherlock... perhaps he really was obsessed. Still, if he was, there was nothing to be done about it now.

In addition to the light, but noticeable physical weight of the letter, it also contained many weighty emotional matters. Alexander's guilt over his lover, his guilt over John's tears, his own impossible struggle, whatever it was, showed in the stress of the cursive writing. It was all there, if only one were to observe it.

In their own crazy way, he and Alexander were connected in their grief, and John was long past fighting this connection. His letters to Alexander had lost their earlier hesitation, as well as much of their reserve, after he'd shared his feeling about Sherlock. Alexander and he were fighting separate, personal wars. Only now they were united, soldiers in arms. Alexander's struggle was obvious, and if the only thing John could do for him was to write back, well, Captain John Watson never left a man behind.

John stood, left his mug in the sink, and carried the letter to his desk. He winced unexpectedly as he sat down, and he blinked at his leg in confusion. His psychosomatic pain _did_ bother him occasionally since Sherlock's death, but that was usually on those days when the dull ache of morning Sherlock became a wound torn open, stabbing with pain. These letters certainly scraped roughly over John at times with the way they reminded him of Sherlock, but still the sudden pain in his leg was unexpected.

Maybe it was Alexander's promise to help John in his own, final case-the truth behind Sherlock's fall. Or maybe...maybe it was everything. Their similarities, their grief, their connection... For just a moment everything had been too much and it had _hurt_. John Watson knew about pain, though, and how to push through it. Taking even, measured breaths to steady himself, he reached for his pen, and put it to paper.

_Dear Alexander,_

_Please, be careful. I don't want you to be hurt, any more than you already are. That's probably impossible, but that's me. The man who wants impossible things..._

_I...I may have said this before, but you remind me of Sherlock. I was just thinking how hard it is not to see him everywhere._

_I feel like we're in this together now. So, one thing at a time, yeah? Let's get you home and reconciled with your family, before we talk about what happened to Sherlock... As much as I want him to, and_ _**God** _ _do I want him to, he isn't coming back._

John's hand shook as he put in writing the one thing he never wanted to be true. His handwriting smudged and shook with his hand, but it was still legible. Good. John didn't think he could write that down again.

_I am truly grateful for the offer of help. I really am, but one thing at a time._

John tapped the pen against his lips for a moment, thinking, before he pressed it's tip to paper once more.

_Don't worry about your lover. I know that seems like a stupid thing to say, but don't. He might be angry when he find out, he might not understand, but if he really loves you, everything else will get sorted. I promise._

John bit back a snort of self derisive laughter and shook his head at himself. He was gushing romantic sentiment like a hormonal teenager... and he was being honest.

_I'm not trying to sound like a romantic git, I really think that is the truth. Take my sister, Harry (Harriet), for example. She's had a drinking problem for as long as I can remember. We've had some awful rows, but we've always started talking again, because she's my sister. I love her, faults and all._

John paused for a measured breath, and pushed on with the rest of it. It felt a bit dangerous, being this honest with Alexander, but it felt validating too. Everyone in London was too full of "good intentions" for John to speak to them with complete honesty. Better to get his thoughts out there whilst he had an interested, if not captive, audience.

_And then there is Sherlock Holmes... Sherlock bloody Holmes. The first time I met the idiot he deduced a litany of painful and personal details about my life with utter disregard for discretion or societal norms. It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. I just might have been head over heels for him from the beginning... I didn't want to see it then, but when the world's most observant consulting detective thinks you're flirting with him, well, he's probably right._

_Sherlock was a terror of a flatmate. He all but destroyed our flat a dozen times with one experiment or another over the years. Even when he wasn't posing a serious threat to the structural integrity of the building, he didn't exactly make the place homey. He left severed heads in the fridge, he was up at all hours, frequently played his violin all through the night, he always wanted my attention, he was pushy, he was brilliant, he nearly got me fired more than once while pulling me out of work to be his assistant, he ruined more dates with ill timed cases than I could possibly remember, or count... and I loved him all the while. Maybe not always in the same way, and I certainly wasn't always honest with myself about my feelings, but I loved him... I still love him. I will probably love him forever._

Reading the last few lines he had written, John though again about how entrenched Sherlock was in his life...even now. John hadn't dated since the fall. He had a creeping recognition that, perhaps, he wouldn't **want** to date again...but that was an existential crisis for another day. Just like he'd written to Alexander, one thing at a time.

 _Listen Alexander, make sure that you keep your injuries clean. Infection can be a_ _**bitch** _ _, and since the invention of antibiotics, people seem to have conveniently forgotten that any break in the skin could lead to a potentially life-threatening infection._

_Not that I'm trying to make you paranoid, or portend the worst, but these things have happened. In your current position, it doesn't sound like you have the best access to medical care. Given the nature of your mission, or what I know about it anyway, you'll be in danger of more frequent and more severe injuries as long as you're away from home._

John glanced up at his medical texts and journals, remembering a specific anecdote one of his old professors had drilled into his head.

 _There was this ancient general-famous for all of the people he had conquered. After one battle where he beheaded an enemy, this general strapped the lifeless head to his saddle. The motion of his horse caused the teeth of his dead enemy to scratch his thigh. It was only a scratch, but it broke this skin, and infection set in. He_ _**died** _ _from that infection, from a scratch. So, be careful, yeah?_

John knew he didn't have all the details of the particular historical event. He wasn't even sure of this general's name, but he'd still made his point, and it was a good one. Still, he couldn't help but think that Sherlock would've known the name of the general, and more details about the event. Hell, he'd probably had it tucked away in his mind palace in case some criminal ever put a virulent strain of MERSA on a sharp edge which would scratch their intended victim and make it look like an accidental death.

That would be just like the kind of cases that used to come across their path. In fact, John was surprised they hadn't had a case of a similar nature in all the case's they'd solved together. Then again, if John could think of it, perhaps it wasn't clever enough. Sherlock only ever dealt with the truly odd.

John smiled, and blinked away a thin layer of mist from his eyes as he was hit with a fresh wave of longing for his lost flatmate. He didn't need to put any more of that longing into writing though. It was plain as day from the first anyway, from the tone of his letters. Alexander had pointed that much out himself.

Maybe that was why everyone that still bothered to speak to John was so concerned that he wasn't "over" Sherlock... Because he wasn't. He never would be, and that showed in every fiber of John's being, no matter how much he was "getting on with his life." ...And that was okay. Sherlock was meant to be a part of him just as, John hoped, he had been meant to be part of Sherlock, even if only in the platonic sense. John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. That's just how things were.

Bringing his attention back to the task at hand, John continued to write.

_Also, once you get back, Vitamin E oil on your skin should help reduce scar tissue. You don't strike me as someone concerned with vanity, but the less scar tissue that forms, the more resilient your skin will be to any further injuries you may sustain. ...I'll have to make sure to tell your lover this too. You sound like the type of patient that will need chasing after with medicine in order to ensure that you take it as prescribed._

John had meant to sound scolding, but it just came out as affectionate.

_Stay safe, Alexander. I'll be waiting._

_Yours,_

_John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note PS: Yes, I know the person alluded to at the end of John's letter is Sigurd Eysteinsson, and so does "Alexander", but John doesn't. Not yet anyway. Stay tuned for the next update!


	6. Wait For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not long now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once again gentle readers! Once again, I am very glad to be back to posting. ^_^ I would like to thank all those who have commented, left kudos, and/or subscribed to/bookmarked this story for their support.
> 
> Thank you also to my flatmate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff. (You have no idea how often I hijack a conversation with him to work out the finer details of a plot. ^_^)

 

Chapter Six: Wait For Me

 

John jogged up the familiar steps of 221B, smirking as his foot hit the creaky 9th step. He didn't realize it, but he was humming. Today had been a good day at the clinic. His patient's had been easy to treat, and personable to speak with. To top it all off, Sarah had told him to knock off early; it wasn't yet 4pm. As much as John enjoyed being productive, he enjoyed getting off early too; it was a rare treat.

Pulling the blue scarf from his neck, John set it lovingly on one of the hooks by the door. It was well into Spring now, but it was still cool enough to justify wearing one of his precious keepsakes. Sherlock would've found the idea appallingly sentimental, but if it bothered him that much, he could voice his complaint in person.

It really must've been a good day, because John found himself able to laugh at the thought of Sherlock making a spectral appearance just to get John to stop wearing his scarves.

John continued to hum, running his hand across the top of the skull on the mantelpiece in an absent minded greeting as he made his way to the kitchen. Tea and an afternoon with a good book sounded like an excellent idea. Maybe he would wake up early tomorrow and go for a run before work.

John pulled two tea cups down from the shelf, a reflex he'd never been able to entirely rid himself of, but he was able to smile about that too. Usually John was able to catch his mistake before he brewed two cups. Usually. Sherlock had him so well trained that there would be hot cups of tea awaiting the world's only consulting detective for decades to come. The act of making two cups of tea was comforting to John, even if he usually ended up drinking both. Leaving the second tea mug out for now, John set his tea to brew.

Watching the steam curl from his mug, John was reminded of Alexander's flowing script. Perhaps this was another reason John had been in such a good mood lately. It had been well over a month since he'd sent his most recent letter, and he was expecting a reply any day now. He'd be lying to himself if he said he wasn't nervous, he knew Alexander's mission was dangerous. He also knew that Alexander's schedule was chaotic. Captain John Watson did not panic over nothing. He would wait, as patiently as he could, until he had fresh news of his friend.

It was nice to have something to look forward to. Not that he didn't look forward to things anymore. John's sense of joy had not died with Sherlock...it _had_ hidden in the dark corners of his heart for a long time, but it was still there. He took joy from books, running, and seeing his patients. All the same, this was the first sense of joy he had in a long, long time that hadn't felt muted in some way.

Once the appropriate amount of time had passed, John lifted the tea bag from his cup, shook it gently, and tossed it in the bin. He was just stepping into the sitting room, headed for his chair, when a determined knocking interrupted him. Frowning slightly in confusion, John changed course and pulled open the door. (It was closed now, more often than not. Mrs. Hudson's pitying looks rankled more than the well meant advice of his 'friends.')

"Mycroft," John greeted the elder Holmes brother coolly. They weren't on the best of terms still, but they were at least at a ceasefire since John had begun his correspondence with Alexander.

Silently, Mycroft thrust a thin, crumpled envelope into John's hands. The motion was so quick that John had to grasp tightly at the paper, lest he drop it into the hallway. Mycroft nodded jerkily, turned on his heel, and was gone.

John blinked after the elder Holmes brother for a moment, confused. Sometimes Mycroft had delivered Alexander's letters in person, sometimes he hadn't, but he'd never left so quickly before...

Shrugging, John shut the door and made his way back to his chair. Mycroft just about ran the whole bloody country, maybe the world. No doubt he had some important political matters to attend to, wars to prevent...or start as the case may be. Given how early John had gotten home from the surgery, it was lucky they'd caught each other at all. Perfect timing really.

Settling into his chair, John placed his mug on the table beside him and studied the letter in his hands. It was even more banged up than last time. Creases and wrinkles marred every inch of space. As John tore open the flap to retrieve the letter, he noticed a troublesome brown smudge. His stomach gave an ominous twist. It did not look as though things had improved for Alexander...not at all.

Carefully smoothing out the pages of the letter, John noticed more brown smudges, and he started to worry his bottom lip between his teeth. Alexander's elegant scrawl spread out before him once more; neat, but hurried.

_Dear John._

_Yes, the brown smears you are likely to see_ _**are** _ _blood. Do not be alarmed; I am not ignoring the advice in your last letter. I'm simply pressed for time and the moment, and I'm not sure when I'll be able to write again._

John scoffed and shook his head at Alexander's carelessness. His reply would need to contain a hefty scolding. Like Sherlock, Alexander did not appear to be easily cowed. However, John had experience with Sherlockian stubbornness, and he was a doctor to boot. He had every right to lecture. He could tolerate delays in correspondence. What he could not handle, was Alexander taking unnecessary risks on a mission that already seemed unreasonably perilous.

_Really, John. I understand the educational demands of a practicing doctor, but you should try to read something beyond medical journals for once. The name you are inarticulately grasping for is_ _Sigurd Eysteinsson. He was able to obtain victory in his last battle by presenting with eighty men, when he'd only challenged his_ _opponent,_ _Máel Brigte, to a 40-man-a-side contest. One could call his death Karma, if one is given to irrational flights of fancy._

John chuckled to himself, smiling fondly at the inanimate paper.

_Rest assured, doctor, I am more than a little familiar with first aide in the field, and what can be done with very limited tools to prevent/treat infection._

_Also, your descriptions of incessant nagging are making home sound_ _**incredibly** _ _appealing, thank you._

"I didn't think it was possible to _write_ sarcastically," John mumbled to himself, one corner of his mouth curling up in a wry smile. Even though he was injured and undoubtedly in pain when he wrote this, John could tell that Alexander was amusing himself with his snarky replies, playing to his captive audience. It was gratifying to see. As a doctor, and a human, John was well aware of how laughter could boost the immune system, and lighten the heart.

Sherlock, for all his bluster and anti-social tendencies, had always been up for a verbal sparring match, and had John indulged him more than was healthy. It was hard to resist watching his flatmate's blue eyes come alive as he strove to concur the most bizarre, or (as in the case of some of their arguments) the most inane challenges.

Human babies could wither and die in their first year of life if they were not held enough, despite how well their other basic needs may be tended to. John supposed it was something about the idea that if they were not loved enough to be held, then life was simply not worth living. Sherlock Holmes had been no different, despite what he might have told you. It was a wonder Sherlock and he hadn't fought more over emotions. Then again, once John saw the subtleties with which Sherlock expressed himself, he was only rarely tempted to call him a machine.

For a moment John wondered if he would have similar arguments with Alexander, once they'd properly met. He instantly scolded himself for the thought. As much as ... Alexander was _not_ Sherlock Holmes. That's just the way it was.

John forced his attention back to the letter at hand.

_You love Sherlock Holmes, John._

It was not a question, but a musing statement. Or, perhaps John was reading fictitious tonality into the letters in addition to seeing the personality of his beloved flatmate in the neat, elegant scrawl. Maybe he was starting to lose his grip on things...

_And now you have appear to become attached to me as well._

Attached? Well, there was no bother denying that. Perhaps John was attached for all the wrong reasons, but he was attached all the same.

Hesitation marks and scribbles blurred almost an entire line of text before John was able to make out Alexander's writing once more. Mycroft's agent must have had much greater difficulty gathering his thoughts than normal.

_I doubt either of us deserve it, especially myself. However, love has never really been about deserving, has it? The man I left behind certainly did not deserve what I did to him..._

John wasn't sure what to think of that. It reminded him of Sherlock and Mycroft both at their most dismissive. Most of their lives were spent focusing on the weakness and the darkness that could dwell inside the human heart. John had seen a great deal of pain and broken lives in his own career. He'd seen people who felt entitled to love, and anything else they could get their hands on. ...There was also those who firmly believed that they could not be loved, and for all the wrong reasons.

Everyone deserved love. Love, just as with other good intention, could be twisted out of all reason and proportion. But, more often than not, John had seen it motivate people to bring forth the best of themselves, for all the right reasons.

John had never shared these kinds of thoughts with Sherlock; he had lacked the patience to put up with the sniping and grousing that would have followed. Goodness knows Sherlock hardly needed an excuse to complain.

John smiled at his memories, because they only proved him correct. His friendship with Sherlock had made him a better, more complete person. He even dared to hope that his friendship had been equally beneficial to the world's only consulting detective. With a thoughtful sigh, John refocused his attention once more on the letter in front of him.

_I hope he can forgive me... I hope_ _**you** _ _can forgive me, John..._

John sat up suddenly, no longer relaxed or leisurely in his reading.

_The truth is, John...I'm not alright. There aren't any fatal injuries, but things are happening very quickly now. I wasn't sure I would be able to write to you again if I didn't take this chance._

That single "if" caused a cold, all too familiar dread to settle over John, pricking at the back of his neck, along his shoulders, and working its way steadily towards his heart.

_This will be the last letter between us, John. It was all I could do to convince Mycroft to send it to you. I..._

There were more hesitation marks here, and John knew why. There was no right thing to say at a time like this, in any language.

_You will worry, and for that I am sorry. I sincerely hope that you will be able to lecture me in person before too long...but if I am wrong...Goodbye, John._

_Yours,_

_Alexander_

"No..." John muttered softly, his hands starting to shake. "No, no, no, no, no..." He turned the letter over in his hands, checking the front, checking the back, then checking the front again. He scrabbled for the envelope, pawing inside of it in case he had missed a page, a contact number, something, anything... He scanned the letter again, forcing himself to read every word.

John cast his eyes around the apartment, still searching for something he could grasp onto. ...There was nothing...nothing.

...Just like with Sherlock...

John stood and started to pace. He managed to keep his feet under him, but only barely. His mind was mired in the possible situations Alexander could've landed himself in. He'd been the only friend John had (sort of) made in the last three years...

It was stupid, stupid to be this upset over someone he'd only known in letters, over a situation he couldn't change... That was the worst part about it. There was **nothing** he could do.

John's hands clenched into trembling fists. He shut his eyes for a moment in an attempt to calm himself, only to open them again when Sherlock's fall began to replay behind his lids.

It was laughable, painfully ironic. Hadn't he though, all along, that Alexander reminded him of Sherlock?

John pressed his arms tightly to his sides, fighting the urge to wrap them around himself. It would not protect him.

Forcing a measured breath through his teeth, John forced his mind to settle into the kind of calm he had only ever needed for battlefield surgeries...until he'd met Sherlock, that is. It was the same kind of calm he had summoned to shoot the cabbie on that first case. He needed to hold onto this calm and consider his options...

Mycroft. John made a sour face at the thought. He didn't relish the idea of calling the older Holmes brother back again; his interactions with the British government had always been strained at best. But, John never backed down when things were difficult. Like it or not, Mycroft was his best, and only link to Alexander.

John had just begun to reach for his phone when it trilled ominously. John accepted the call and lifted the phone to his ear. "You knew," he accused, feeling a hot sense of satisfaction when his indictment resulted in a lengthy pause. The letter showed no obvious signs of being tampered with. Even if it had arrived pristine instead of crumpled, John doubted he would've see any trace that it had been opened. But Mycroft was Mycroft, and he always would be.

Mycroft's continued silence rankled and John strode irritably to the windows of the sitting room, glaring out into the night. Mycroft had eyes everywhere and, right now, this was the closest he could come to staring down the elder Holmes brother.

"What's next then?" John pressed.

"We wait," Mycroft drawled softly.

"That's not good enough, Mycroft!" John hissed.

Sudden movement from the street below caught John's attention. A man in an expensive and immaculately tailored suit was stepping out of a shimmering black Bentley. John's chest wrenched painfully when he realized that the timing of Mycroft's delivery of this last letter was no happy accident; Mycroft had been waiting around for him in that stupid car so that he could deliver the letter in person as soon as John arrived home. He might even have had something to do with John getting off work early. _Bastard._

The elder Holmes brother stood tall, and locked eyes with the good doctor from his position on the street below. He looked as stoic and collected as ever. "I _did_ try to warn you of the dangers back when this all began, John."

"I'm sorry, John," Mycroft said evenly.

John fought to keep his breathing even, to retain the calm he'd so carefully put into place. Mycroft never apologized. Ever.

"When you have news," John said purposefully, "You call me."

John saw Mycroft bow his head slightly in acquiescence, and then the call went dead.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment in the silence that followed. Heavy emotions swam behind two sets of eyes. There just wasn't anything else to say.

Mycroft turned back to his car and got inside. The Bentley pulled away from the curb, lost itself in the sea of London traffic, and was gone.

The floor came up to meet John's knees as his arms wrapped tightly around his middle. It didn't stop the shaking, and it wouldn't protect him from the emotions battering against the walls of his heart...but it was all that was left to him.


	7. The Secrets We Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth at last...not that it's a surprise to anyone but John. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've left you at a bit of a cliff hanger for a while. There will be resolution, I promise! ...eventually :)
> 
> Thank you to all those who commented, gave kudos to, and/or subscribed/bookmarked this story for their thoughtful and touching reviews/support. 
> 
> Thanks also to my flatmate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff. ^_^
> 
> Yay! I managed to post about a week apart. I doubt I'll be able to keep it up, but I'm pleased at such a short gap between postings. ^_^

 

Chapter 7: The Secrets We Keep

 

John was in the Morgue at St. Barts again. It had been a long time since he'd come to St. Barts. He used to spend a great deal of time here, just after Sherlock fell. Going to Barts had helped almost as much as it hurt, like tonguing a wound in your mouth as though the act of running your tongue across it would make it heal. He'd just about had a panic attack every time he tried to get in the front door, and then he'd stand around the morgue for hours without being much use to anyone.

It was Molly who had finally taken pity on him, and helped him in an unexpected way; she'd given him work to do. It was against policy, John wasn't an employee of the morgue, but it _had_ helped. In the beginning, Molly had needed to babysit John's every move. _"Cut here, stitch that."_ As John had begun to regain his equilibrium, he'd needed less and less supervision, and he'd come around less and less often. In the past six months, he'd dropped by exactly three times. Each time John had come in the last six months, Molly had all but handed over entire autopsies to John. Even then, he'd only come on the very worst days, when he felt his grief would drown him. It had been almost a month since John had been to the morgue at all, and he'd thought he was _finally_ free of needing the macabre comfort it offered.

Now, three days after Alexander's last letter, John was absolutely stymied by stitching closed the Y-shaped opening in the chest of a young woman that Molly had finished working on early that morning. The needle and coarse black thread did nothing to calm his mind...

_Where was Alexander?_

_Was he safe?_

_How badly was he injured?_

_Would John ever have the chance to meet him?_

_Would Mycroft even_ _**tell** _ _John if Alexander survived?_

 _Would he_ _**ever** _ _find his answers?_

...John thought he had been doing well, moving forward with his life, if not moving on...

A small, gloved hand covered his own, shaking one. "She's going to be cremated in the morning, John. No one will know if you don't finish the stitches."

John sighed and let go of the needle, lowering his hand onto the torso of the dead woman.

Molly tightened her grip on his hand, giving it a sympathetic squeeze.

"That's against policy, not stitching her up," John muttered, his eyes still fixed on the snow white chest in front of him.

Molly shrugged. "It's against policy having you here in the first place."

John turned his head to look at her and smiled ruefully. His throat felt tight. His eyes burned. "Blatant disregard for the rules. Sherlock would be proud." His voice sounded strained, and John struggled to keep his breathing even.

Molly's lips quirked and she shook her head. "Sherlock, would take advantage of it." John huffed a laugh, which brought a more genuine smile out of the young morgue assistant. She jerked her head towards the exit. "Come on, let's wash up and grab some tea."

John nodded and followed her.

~*~*~*~*~

Later, in the lounge, John took a long pull from his tea, and was able to find a sense of calm once more; it was only a semblance of calm, but it would have to do. He glanced over at Molly, seemingly absorbed in her own tea as she sat beside him, and nudged her leg with his own to get her attention. "Thank you for today," he murmured.

She smiled indulgently back at him, her eyes crinkling up in the corners. "Any time, John. It's nice to be able to help."

John smiled a bit ruefully. "Yeah. Thought I was passed all this..." His throat felt tight again. Suddenly desperate for a change of subject he asked, "How's Greg doing?"

Molly's smile brightened. "He's good. He took me to Angelo's last Friday, it was just as good as you said it would be."

John pretended not to hear the unspoken, " _You should go back sometime._ " Molly was the kindest and gentlest about her prodding, but it still rankled that neither she, nor any of his other 'friends' would let him mourn in his own way. No, he wasn't alright, and he had every _damn_ right not to be. It was hard enough pretending for himself that he had everything together; he resented having to pretend for everyone else, especially when they never really believed him... not even when he _was_ mostly alright.

"That's great Molly," John said flatly, then he found enough joy to force a semi-genuine smile. "I really think you two are good together, congratulations."

The awkward silence which followed stung. Greg had Molly. Mycroft had his work, and probably Anthea too. While John,...John had his memories. Not that he was bitter about it. Nope, not bitter. His friends deserved to be happy.

John let out a slow sigh, nodding silently to himself. He really did believe they deserved to be happy...

Next to him, Molly bit her lip indecisively before mumbling, "I probably shouldn't bring this up, because talking never seems to help, does it?"

John flinched with the suppressed urge to grimace, and braced himself for **yet another** awkward conversation.

_You'll get over the loss._

_You'll move on._

If anyone would spare him that conversation, he'd thought it would be Molly... It'd been three years, John had thought he was **done** with these kinds of conversations.

Molly was babbling now about the last days, the days just before the fall. She stumbled, somewhat over her words, probably because John was glaring at her. He didn't really mean to, it was practically a reflex at this point. For the sake of a long friendship, John made an effort not to glare, and focused on what she was saying.

"...I questioned him about it, " Molly continued, "But he wouldn't open up to me at first." She looked down at her tea with a sad smile. "Not that he ever really did, but I knew something bad was about to happen... He looked so sad, whenever he thought you couldn't see him."

John's mouth set in a tight line as he remembered the cutting words he had spoken that day. " _You machine!"_

"That last day," Molly pressed on, tears brimming softly behind her eyelids, "he came to me. He...he told me that he thought he might die soon." Molly sucked in a breath that was half a sob and pressed trembling fingers to her lips.

As cross as he was for what John perceived would be a well-meant but ineffectual lecture, John leaned forward and rubbed the small of her back in small, comforting circles. He was still a doctor; he did not leave hurting people alone.

Molly lowered her hand after a long moment, offered John a watery smile, and whispered, "He did ask me to do him a favor, in the end."

John immediately perked up. This was information he _didn't_ know. This might be _the_ information he was looking for, the information that would allow him to have his answers about Sherlock.

Molly swallowed hard and blinked, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. "He-he asked me to let Mycroft's team handle the autopsy in the event of his death." John leaned forward now, just managing not to shake the poor women in front of him, so that she would hurry up. "The strange thing though, was that he asked me to be the one to sign the death certificate, after I had the autopsy report."

Oh. Was that all? ...That was underwhelming. "Probably to make it look like you did the autopsy. No one's really supposed to know about Mycroft's agents," John muttered, his eyes fixed to the tile floor beneath his feet. Did this 'revelation' mean anything other than that? Not likely. He mentally kicked himself for getting so excited over a simple cover story. When had he taken to grasping at straws? Sherlock had always admonished him to make the theory fit the facts, and not the other way around.

What if there really wasn't any more to the story of Sherlock's death? Just one genius caught in the trap of another, impossibly evil genius. What if John actually had _all_ the answers he was ever going to get?

John forced himself to drink some tea, even if he spilled a bit because his hands were shaking again. He couldn't look at that possibility right now; he wasn't sure he'd **ever** be able to look at it...

Molly's expression crumpled with concern. "John, I'm so sorry."

"It's fine, Molly," he assured her with as winning a smile as he could force onto his face. "It's all fine."

Somewhere along the line, that had become his catchphrase. Only it wasn't fine. None of it. Nothing had really been fine since Sherlock had jumped; John had just become skilled at managing how 'not fine' he was.

"It's ironic that you came in today," Molly said, breaking in on John melancholic reverie. John turned to face the young morgue assistant with a puzzled look on his face.

Molly looked hesitant for a moment, as though thinking better of what she was about to say, then said in a rush, "Because I was organizing some files earlier, and I came across his death certificate... It made me think of you."

John gave a small grim smile. Could he never distance himself from Sherlock? Would he never be free of this specter? Did he even want to be? Right now, in his worry about Alexander, he felt he was suffocating on painful memories, but he wasn't sure he knew any other way to be. Forcing himself to focus, John realized Molly was still speaking.

"I still can't believe it was so misfiled. It _never_ should have been in that section of the archives..." Molly ran her fingers nervously through the end of her ponytail as she talked, and John doubted it was for fear of being scolded for untidy paperwork. She was afraid for him. If he was honest, he was a little afraid for himself some days...

Something pricked at the back of John's mind as he considered Molly's words. She was a very dedicated, organized morgue assistant. Why _would_ Sherlock's death certificate be misfiled? Molly adored Sherlock, and had pinned over him for years. John couldn't imagine her _ever_ making a mistake with _that_ death certificate.

John's eyes narrowed in thought. Was this really something? Or was he jumping at shadows? Unable to quash his curiosity, John licked his lips and asked, "Could...could I see it?"

Molly shot him an odd, thoughtful look before murmuring, "Yeah, sure. I guess it couldn't hurt."

Rising from their seats, they made for the stairs. There were only seven flights of stairs between them and the archives, but it seems like an endless, poorly lit, concrete labyrinth. John argued with himself the entire way down, wondering how much a fool he would feel when this 'investigation' came to nothing...and still he could not ignore the tingling excitement creeping up his spine. It was weak, tentative, but still reminiscent of the excitement he'd felt while running cases with Sherlock. John thought it might have truly been sick, how _happy_ that familiar creeping feeling made him.

Molly opened the final landing door, and they began winding their way through the archival stacks. A quarter of the way down the third column to their left, Molly stopped and pulled a slim file from the second shelf and handed it to John.

John smiled his thanks, opened the file, and read. It be gain the coroner's report.

_Subject was a thirty-six year old Caucasian male. The main cause of death was massive blunt force trauma to the head, which fractured the frontal cranium. The parietal cranium and the occipital cranium were crushed by the impact of the subject's fall. Subject also sustained three broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, the left lung was punctured, and the right wrist was fractured._

John winced at the thought of how that last injury would affect Sherlock's violin playing, then silently cursed his own stupidity. He turned the page and skimmed the cataloging of Sherlock's personal items.

_Found on the subject: one Belstaff coat, one cashmere scarf, one oxford shirt, one pair of dress trousers, cotton pants, one pair of woolen socks, and two leather shoes._

It was strange not to see Sherlock's phone listed among his immediate belongings. He was always typing on that damned thing... until he'd called John. A small sigh escaped the doctor's lips as he mentally jerked away from land mine of a memory. He was not going there, not today. He'd, quite truly, had enough of loss, even if he still had an unhealthy penchant for danger.

John forced his eyes to move further down on the page, brushing over a small notation about the phone being retrieved from the roof, where Sherlock had tossed it.

John turned the page and broke out into startled laughter when he was confronted with a small picture of one of their for holiday's together. Everyone was there. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, even Mycroft had made a small appearance that year. Mycroft had managed a small, polite smile for the photograph, while Sherlock scowled boldly in the midst of the grinning faces of his friends. John still carried a copy of this photograph in his own wallet to this day. It was too perfect a representation of his friend to let go.

"What is this doing here?" John asked, running his thumb lightly over the picture, which was sealed in a thin plastic bag.

Molly's eyes widened and she blushed a brilliant scarlet. "I turned that over to evidence!" She insisted. "I _swear_ Greg should have it!"

John raised a suspicious eyebrow, but he kept his tone light. "It's fine Molly. I don't mind. And I don't think it made the slightest difference in his investigation anyway."

Molly looked down and grumbled, "No, I suppose not, but still..."

John flipped to the last page of the file studied the death certificate, his heart sinking a bit when he saw _nothing_ out of place. He flipped back, examining the first few pages of the file again. Was this really it? His brows furrowed in frustration. There was nothing here he didn't already _know_!

When John reached the death certificate once more he felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. He _was_ jumping at shadows. Or if there was any clue here, he wasn't anywhere near brilliant enough to find it. Feeling foolish and dejected, John extended his arm to return the file to the young morgue assistant. "Thanks, Molly."

Molly offered a tight-lipped, concerned smile as she reached for the papers. "Anytime, John."

As her hand grasped the folder and made to pull it close, John tightened his grip, his eyes widening. Molly pulled again, and the folder jerked ineffectually between them.

"John?"

Dread and cold realization shot down John's spine.

It couldn't be.

It couldn't _possibly_ be.

There, just under John's thumb, the name of the deceased was printed in small, clear letters.

_Sherlock Alexander Holmes._

It was the last thing John was aware of before the darkness took him.


	8. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When all else seems lost...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once again gentle readers! ^_^ I do apologize for the delay in posting this chapter, a nasty summer cold knocked me out for a week. _ But now I am back, and I hope to keep a regular every other week to once a week posting schedule, with allowances made for general life distractions and one wedding (that's not till November though). 
> 
> Many thanks to all those who left comment, kudos, and/or bookmarked/subscribed to this story for their encouraging and thoughtful reviews! Your support keeps me smiling! ^_^
> 
> There is one more chapter after this one, and I really, really think you'll want to read it when I'm able to post it. But, until then, have faith.

Chapter 8: Faith

One would think that, after _**everything**_ that Sherlock Holmes had put him through, after _everything_ they'd done together, that John's tolerance for having his world turned on its ear would be greater than most people would need in a lifetime. Generally speaking, one would be correct. However, John had never hoped, never even dreamt that his sorrowful request, breathed only to the mist and the cold granite of Sherlock's tombstone, would ever come true. He'd wanted it to be true, desperately, more than anything, but he'd still had a firm grip on reality. He'd seen the blood. There was no pulse... Those sightless blue eyes would haunt him until the day he died...

John could want and imagine until the ache of it literally drained the strength from his heart, but no force on earth had ever brought someone back from the dead... not unless you believed in legends...or fairytales...

Now that there possibility existed...that Sherlock might be... This potential new reality left John shattered and lost in a way that transcended even the grief filled haze that had nearly consumed him since Sherlock's fall.

John watched his fingers shake in his lap as he struggled to mentally reconcile himself to what he had learned. Sherlock was...well, that was the question, wasn't it? Seeing the potential for such an impossible dream to come true left John paralyzed with the fear that it would be snatched away again. He couldn't bear that. Not that, not ever. He would lose his mind...not that he was doing the best job of hanging onto it at present.

Was Sherlock...?

Had he been...?

Was he still...?

John was frightened of even giving his suspicions coherent thought, lest to give his conjecture too much energy would ensure his future devastation.

He heaved a raged breath and turned his head sideways towards the window. He tried not to look too hard at anything these days. It only resulted in intermittent fits of rage when he thought of what Sherlock had put him through, or fits of renewed grief when he reviewed the letters in his mind and thought of Sherlock's sacrifice, of his pain.

The flat couldn't survive much more of John's temper. Broken cutlery lingered against the walls and jammed in corners, remnants of John's rage and grief. Piles of unwashed clothes littered the floor, and moldering, half-sentient food heaped on the few surviving pieces of cutlery.

John ran a dry tongue over cracked lips and tried to remember the last time he'd gotten out of his chair. Not today. Probably not yesterday either.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of his chair, his cheek sinking into the soft fabric. It had been days since he'd slept properly as well, but it wasn't fatigue that made him so weary.

John had generally been offended when someone, anyone tried to insinuate that he wasn't doing well since Sherlock's fall. Yes, he was not as he once was, but, all things considered, John thought he was carrying on fairly well. Anyways it was the best that he could do, considering the gaping hole the arrogant git had torn in John's life when he'd jumped.

Only...only in this last month... Had it been a whole month? Longer? Shorter? John knew it was more than a week since he'd been to the morgue, but after that the days had blurred together. The foundations he'd built his life in had once more shifted into sand under his feet, and John wasn't sure what to do. He'd called out of work for a while, indefinitely. It wasn't like he didn't have savings.

Molly had revived him from his faint and walked with him back to Baker Street, tripping over apologies the entire time. She'd settled John into the very chair where he sat now. John did his best to waive off her concerns with claims of low blood sugar combined with the sudden shock of "seeing it in writing," although he had not elaborated on _what_ he had seen in writing that had shocked him so much. Molly, naturally, assumed it was the death certificate as a whole, that further confirmation of his loss.

John knew he had not convinced or reassured the young morgue assistant that he was fine. For the first time in almost three years he was as "not fine" as he could ever remember being, and it showed. He'd locked the door after she'd gone, not wanting to bother dealing with concerned friends who would come calling later.

Mrs. Hudson had left food outside the door, some of which he'd managed to choke down. Greg had threatened to bring in a tactical unit and break down the door. He hadn't _yet_ , for which John was grateful.

John's fingers twitched in nervous agitation as the wheels of his mind spun helplessly.

...what now?

...In a bizarre way, nothing was really different. Only John's perspective had changed... There was still nothing to do but _wait_...and he didn't have to wait here. If Sherlock...if Alexander...if he returned to London, he would find John no matter where he was.

John opened his eyes, stood, pulled on his coat, and rushed out the door. He ran down the steps and out onto the streets of London before Mrs. Hudson could comment on the sudden commotion. Once he was outside, John kept running. He was dehydrated, exhausted, and likely a bit undernourished, but he hadn't yet lost what all those years of running, first after Sherlock and then away from his memories, had given him.

The streets were alive with people, with energy, as they almost always were in London. It was really no surprise that Sherlock had loved it here. John had thought about leaving after Sherlock's fall, but he never could, especially not now.

His legs carried him down streets, around corners, and, eventually, to the edge of a cemetery he'd not been to in three years. John halted at the gates, panting and shaking. At first, just after Sherlock's fall, John had thought it was their flat he couldn't handle, but that wasn't it. He couldn't stay away from the flat for too long, because it wasn't the memories of Sherlock's life which truly pained him. It was the memories of Sherlock's fall. It was the grave; the proof of a truth he could never fully accept.

John stepped forward, gravel crunching under his shoes. It had been three years, but he still remembered the way. The church, the gravestones, and the trees seemed to bleed into the background as John drew closer to a simple black memorial with only a name.

_Sherlock Holmes_

John stopped at the edge of the grave, trembling in the early morning mist. The last time he'd stood here alone he'd breathed a silent, desperate prayer that he never believed would come to pass, despite how much he wanted it...

_"You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. That's so. There... I was so alone, and I owe you so much, but, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."_

John's fingers trembled as he placed them lightly on the grave. He was used to being a man of action, and this inability to act was more trying then he thought he could bear. As tempting as it was to plead, as he had pleaded that day so long ago, his words would not keep Sherlock alive, if was alive...

_Oh God..._

His words certainly couldn't ensure that his consulting detective came back to him safely. For all his emotional upheaval... this might really be the end of their story. He would get the details from Mycroft later, if the worst came, but Sherlock would still be...

John's breath stuck in his throat, and unshed tears burned in his eyes. He blinked against the summer rain and kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock's grave...

If this really could be the end, there was no point in holding back. He owed Sherlock so much more than this, but this was all he had. The muscles in his throat eased, and air made its way into his lungs.

"I love you, Sherlock, and I'll be waiting, always."

The wind rustled the leaves above his head, but the empty air held no answer for him. Sherlock did not appear behind him, emerging from the very shadows where he may have witnessed John's last speech to him, all those long, lonely years ago."

Still, John was resolved.

He ran his fingertips gently over the gravestone.

_Always._

He jumped half out of his skin when the firm grip of a hand seized his good shoulder. John turned wide-eyed and tried not to look too disappointed when he came face to face with Greg Lestrade.

Greg raised his eyebrows. "You look like hell, John."

John snorted humorlessly. "I haven't had the best time of it lately."

Greg's lips pressed into a thin, concerned line and he nodded. "That's why we're here."

John blinked and became aware of other figures in the background. Mrs. Hudson, Molly...Mycroft.

"John," Greg said firmly, but gently, "You haven't been well, you _need_ help. Mycroft...well you know he has access to the best of everything."

John's eyes widened slightly, but only slightly as the truth dawned on him. "The best doctors.."

Greg nodded, then hesitated. "The best hospitals, too."

A sick, twisted feeling settled in John's stomach and he remembered words from half a year ago.

_"I could have you committed, you know."_

No. Why? Why now, after everything else? If Alexander... If Sherlock...If Mycroft had bad news to share, John had every fucking right to be 'not fine.' This wasn't just one death. It was the death of his best friend, the man he loved, not once, but twice...

Unless...? Mycroft had made that threat before the letters ever started. He had cameras everywhere. He'd made no point of hiding the fact that Sherlock and John had been under surveillance...

A cold that had little to do with the misty rain settled deep into John's skin and clawed at his heart. Mycroft would know, better than any other person, how to lure John in with those letters. Build his trust, push his buttons, play with his heart like a cat with a mouse.

Most people do not realize, or do not often think of the fact that neck ties are tied with noose knots. John realized, and was damn well about to make use of one.

Breaking free of Greg's grip, John strode forward, shrugging off the hands of Mrs. Hudson and Molly as they extended to him. The self satisfied smile that curled on Mycroft's face was sickening, and John's glare hardened as he approached.

He should have expected the sting of the needle in his neck. Mycroft never traveled without henchmen, and after John had broken his nose, well, Mycroft Holmes didn't underestimate people twice.


	9. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title says it all. ^_^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all those who have left comments, given kudos to, and bookmarked/subscribed to this story! I am so sorry I left you hanging on the ending for over a year, but I do hope this chapter makes up for that. Your support makes me smile! ^_^

Chapter 9: Home

Consciousness returned, but slowly. John worked a tongue that felt too think for his mouth through his lips, blinking away the cotton that seemed to fill his mind. His vision was blurry at first. He tried to raise his fingers to his eyes and wipe them clear, but his hands were bound to...something. Unable to lift his hands more than a few inches jolted John's adrenal system, flooding his bloodstream with enough adrenaline that he was able to lift his head, furiously blinking his vision into focus.

"You have a remarkable constitution, Dr. Watson."

"Mycroft," John spat, his face twisting into a sneer as he tugged at his bonds.

The elder Holmes brother shook his head, and put a concerned expression on his face. "Dear me, Dr. Watson, you will do yourself some damage if you continue in that fashion. Really, you've only been down for thirty minutes; you've hardly lost any time at all.

"Fuck you!" John hissed, wrenching his wrists in their bonds. If he jerked the right way, a way that resulted in the dislocation of his thumb joint, he might be able to get his hands free. It would hurt like hell, but he was beyond caring. It would get him that much closer to breaking Mycroft's perfectly healed nose.

Cool, smooth fingers fell gently over John's wrist to still his movements. It was the softness of the touch that brought John to a temporary stand-still. Mycroft was many things, but John would never really call him _soft_.

John glared up into a face pulled taunt with regret. "Your friends were already on their way to you, John, when I _intercepted_ them. I apologize for your mental anguish, truly. It was the fastest way to get you here."

Mycroft, for the first time that John could remember, looked...uncomfortable. He combed his fingers though his hair, and met John's furious gaze with his open one. "I used to worry about my little brother constantly, as you well know. ... I found, quite to my surprise, that once you were in the picture, I did not have too. Still, old habits are quite hard to break... I should not be surprised that your loyalty endures, even now. I cannot think of anyone I would trust more with my brother's safety...or his heart."

John sucked in a breath to make a lengthy retort when a familiar, crinkled letter with a calligraphy "J" emblazoned on the seal, the one that John had opened over a month ago (probably) crept into his vision. John snarled, "What the _hell_ -"

"He's _home_ , John, and he's waiting for you."

John let out a shocked huff of air as his heart stuttered in his chest.

"He-" John couldn't form the words, could barely form the _thought_ as emotions twisted around inside his chest. He was angry, fucking livid at Mycroft...but even John had seen the writing on the walls about his friends taking action... Fuck. He could deal with that _later_.

"Let me _go_ , Mycroft," John insisted, and instantly his hands were free; his feet followed soon after. Getting upright was more of a production than John wanted it to be, but he managed it. When he looked up, Mycroft was reserved and collected once more. "Where is he?" John demanded.

"He's in a bad way at present," Mycroft began, "but I assure you, he will recover." The hint of a smirk ghosted over Mycroft's lips. "I believe you made requests to meet him once he was returned? I even remember an offer to provide medical services, should they be required."

A thousand questions formed and died in John's throat. He had to know, and yet he couldn't ask. Was Alexander... was he really? He _had_ to be...didn't he?

Mycroft arched a thoughtful eyebrow in John's direction. "If you will follow me, I will take you to him."

The elder Holmes turned and slipped out of the door to John's room, into the hallway beyond.

Having his feet under him once more, John followed Mycroft with the sure, steady steps of a soldier, uncertain if heartache, disappointment devastation, or...or hope waited at the end of that long narrow hallway. It was an answer he couldn't turn away from. Not now. Not after...everything. It had to be... _him_...it just had to be.

Mycroft had said he was injured...how badly? John's fingers twitched as he fought the urge to move them to his damaged shoulder in sympathy.

After an endless series of doors, Mycroft finally stopped in front of an unmarked one. He glanced over his shoulder at John before opening the door for him, and letting John pass through unhindered. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving John alone in a room with a gossamer curtain separating him from the man in the bed. A near translucent piece of fabric separating him from...

John drew the fabric aside, and lost all his composure.

"Sh-Sherlock!" he gasped, fresh tears springing to his eyes. After all this time, they were not ones of sorrow, just of overwhelming emotion. John was a soldier, and reserved, but that didn't mean he was afraid to cry, it just depended on the company.

"John," came a raspy reply as Sherlock parted his chapped lips and raised his hands to embrace his doctor.

John wanted to crush Sherlock to his chest, to lie down on top of him and tie the arrogant bastard to the bed so that he could never get away again, but he was still a doctor, and Sherlock's injuries did not escape him.

Mottled bruising covered his beautiful face, the bandages and stuttered breathing indicated broken ribs on his right side, his left leg was in a cast up to his knee, and his left wrist was wrapped tightly in an ace bandage-if it wasn't broken it was very badly sprained.

Raising his eyes to meet Sherlock's once more, John stepped forward, pulling Sherlock gently, but fiercely, into his arms, settling himself on the edge of the bed, so that he could be as close to him as physically possible. "I love you," John breathed into Sherlock's ear, "I love you so much."

Sherlock's arms had come around John with a strength that had always surprised the good doctor. "I love you too, John," Sherlock's baritone voice rumbled in John's ear, no longer a figment of his imagination.

He was more pale than John remembered, thinner, and trembling in his arms, but it really was him. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock." The name fell from his lips like a chant as John nestled himself against the world's only consulting detective, breathing him in.

They were both shaking now and both, in some ways, scarred, and broken, but they were together, _finally_ , together again.

"John," Sherlock murmured, turning his head to look into his doctor's eyes. His voice shook. "I'm sorry, John. I am so sorry."

John gently, but insistently, peppered Sherlock's face with kisses. "Git. Idiot. Tosser. I am so fucking cross with you right now."

A satisfied smile curved on Sherlock's elegant lips. "You're doing a brilliant job of showing it."

John laughed, and leaned in to kiss Sherlock properly. His lips were plush and firm beneath John's, and they opened to him like an embrace. The kiss, like John's previous touches, was gentle and passionate. Breath mingled, tongues explored, and very close smiles were exchanged in the small spaces of time when John attempted to pull back, only to press into Sherlock once more.

"I love you," John breathed again knowing he would never be able to say it enough.

Sherlock smiled brightly, cupped John's face and whispered, "I love you too. Let's go _home_ , John."

"If you think I'm letting you out of my sight, ever again, you are fucking _mental_ ."

Sherlock baritone laugh filled the room as they embraced once more.

~*~*~*~*~

John lounged in his chair at 221 B, perfectly happy for the first time in over three years. Sherlock was home, and everything was right with his world, or getting there anyway.

Sherlock had to stay in hospital for a week before the staff, Mycroft, or John would even think about letting him go back to Baker Street. As much as John wanted him there, he wanted to do what was best for Sherlock's recovery. Sherlock had grumbled, but he hadn't been in the mood to deny John anything.

Mycroft had been kind enough to arrange it that Sherlock and John would be left alone for two months at 221B. He'd sent Mrs. Hudson on Holiday, and sternly informed John's friends that visits of any kind would interrupt John's "therapy."

It was almost enough that John didn't want to punch the elder Holmes brother anymore...almost. While he had not yet realigned Mycroft's perfectly healed nose, John had often verbalized the threat. Mycroft's only reply's had wry smirks.

Mycroft was still an ass, but John wasn't so angry that he couldn't see Mycroft had tried to make Sherlock's painful absence and return as easy as he was able to. Their meeting at the cemetery had been traumatic, but John did believe Mycroft when he'd said it was to prevent an actual hospitalization, and quicken his reunion with Sherlock. That didn't mean he couldn't threaten the British Government.

One month of their two month reprieve had already elapsed, and they were both recovering nicely. Sherlock needed the cane now, legitimately, but it was only temporary. His capacity for healing defied the odds, much like everything else about him.

Sherlock, for the moment, seemed quite content to be confined with John. They had spent a great deal of time talking this past month, catching up, and establishing the relationship they always should have had. This 'death' had left them both scarred in more ways than one.

John had made his affection for Sherlock very clear, as well as his anger. He understood Sherlock's bravery, and the impossibility of the situation he had been placed in, but he was only human. During one of their talks, spent holding each other on the couch, John had softly said, " _I'm still very pissed off at you, and it will come out, now and then_."

" _I know_ ," Sherlock had replied, tucking his head in the crook of John's shoulder and letting out a contented sigh, " _I know_."

And he did know. Love, and the work involved in growing love, making it last, had never been a mystery to Sherlock. He'd just never seen the point in trusting someone like that. People are flawed, and they will disappoint you. He was a prime example. He disappointed everyone. He was sarcastic, rude, and as blunt as a falling tree. And he'd hurt John...

He'd hurt John worse than any bullet ever could, and still John forgave him, because he loved and trusted him. With John, Sherlock had finally seen love as something with more joys than sorrows. Now that he had a second chance to do things properly, Sherlock intended to take full advantage of it.

He could not comfort John with promises that he would never leave, because they lived dangerous lives, and there was no telling what could happen next. There was one thing, however, that he could promise, because despite the hurt and the domestics, Sherlock had absolute faith in their enduring partnership.

Letting go of his cane, Sherlock draped himself across John's lap. Although the good doctor grumbled, it was belied by his warm smile and encircling hands. Sherlock held John's face in his hands and kissed him slowly. John's hands tightened at Sherlock's waist as he responded to the kiss, opening his mouth to Sherlock's eager explorations.

When Sherlock eventually pulled back, he whispered, "I will love you, John, always."

John's eyes searched his, and he smiled. "I was a goner for you the moment I saw you."

Sherlock smirked and murmured, "Naturally."

John chuckled as Sherlock lowered his head once more, planting soft kisses along his doctor's neck. John worked his fingers at the buttons of Sherlock's oxford shirt, breathing in the warmth and energy of his lover...

Several hours later found them sprawled lazily across Sherlock's bed, John's head on Sherlock's shoulder. It was late and a perfectly decent hour for most people to sleep. John, however, had trouble letting go these days. Sherlock had never slept particularly well because of his busy mind, always seeking stimulation. John's problem was not his mind, however, but the past. He had been quite literal about not letting Sherlock out of his sight.

Sherlock had striven to find a solution which would let them both rest easy. His solution resulted in Sherlock reading aloud from whatever book John was reading, until his blogger finally released his grip on wakefulness. It had become a soothing rhythm with which they ended their days. Sherlock tended to pick apart the books like he picked apart crap telly, but John appeared to consider that part of the fun.

Feeling John's breathing slip into the steady, comforting patterns of sleep, Sherlock gently closed the book, placed it on the nightstand, turned out the light, and nestled in close. His mind was still a busy one, but he found John's presence greatly soothing. He did not doubt he too would be asleep before long. They would not be this peaceful forever. Tomorrow would bring another adventure, and the truth would come out to the world at large eventually, but right now, everything was perfect; they were both _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless self promotion: Thank you for taking the time to read my story, and I hope you enjoyed it. I will be working on the "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling." I hope you will consider giving them a look as well. ^_^

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for " Always" by Dark3Star](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653658) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




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